Trouble For Two
by Crescentium
Summary: Schuldig wishes good riddance to Rosenkreuz. His reunion with Crawford involves a great deal more guns and games than he expected: Crawford made a few promises before leaving Rosenkreuz, and Schuldig is trying to figure out how they are supposed to add up and whether it'll all even out in the end.
1. Release the Demon

**Author's Notes: **This story is actually a collection of stories tracking the "C/S team building" continuum of my _The Psychic Entanglement_ fanverse. You don't necessarily need to have read anything else from the fanverse in order to enjoy these.

Having said that, I do refer to a few past events/premonitions here and there, and of course you will be better acquainted with the setting if you have read the previous installment(s). These stories are standalone snapshots/short stories set within the first month of Crawford's and Schuldig's reunion post-Rosenkreuz, so chronologically after _Case of the Red Demon_ and before _Long Way To Christmas_.

**Character notes:** Very much Brad Crawford/Schuldig exclusive, but my original character Adelbert Dietrich makes a brief cameo in the first story.

* * *

**:: Release the Demon ::**

Schuldig pulled up the collar of his long overcoat, not so much against the cold breeze but in defiance to the watchful eyes boring into the back of his head. He knew the exact location of the brooding shadow that was the head supervisor of Rosenkreuz. He was a tall, pale man with silver highlights in his black hair near his temples. He wore his long hair swept back, and he was wearing a black uniform.

Herr Adelbert Dietrich's mood was as black as everything else about him.

Schuldig ignored him. He was done with form, done with the pomp and circumstance that were Rosenkreuz graduation procedures. He had stood still and spoken the words he was expected to speak, and he had been everything that he was expected to be. He had danced to their tune. To Dietrich's tune.

But soon, he would choose his tune. He would dance to his own music.

The mere thought got him grinning. Wide.

_» Wipe that off. »_ A smooth, gentle brush of thought on thought reminded him, _» The inspector will be here soon. »_

Dietrich delivered his point loud and clear. Schuldig wouldn't want to get caught looking too happy. He was supposed to take this moment seriously. Schuldig dropped the grin obediently.

Still, he couldn't resist crossing his arms over his chest in defiant challenge. The rules of this institution would restrain him only a little while longer.

The older telepath's disapproval hung heavy in the air, but no punishment followed. Dietrich let it lie.

Schuldig's eye wandered to the tall buildings and walls and towers that surrounded him on every side. He was standing in one of the many courtyards of Rosenkreuz institute, the front yard of the main building, the heart of the institution. He was one former student among many; he stood at one end of two rows of young psychics, fresh graduates like he. They were dressed in suits and long overcoats like Schuldig. A flock of eager young agents ready for their first assignment. Some of them were picking at their sleeves with a perplexed, slightly lost expression. They had almost forgotten what it was like not to wear a uniform. Most of them could barely believe that they were finally here, ready to leave.

Schuldig had no problem believing. He believed with his every fibre. He raised his eyes up to the sky. He could not make out the mountains from here. But they were there. Beyond those walls. And soon he would be leaving them behind.

Soon, he would be free.

"Attention!" Dietrich barked. He delivered a gentler private telepathic poke to his favourite. Schuldig straightened his back and then he stood perfectly still. One last performance. One last show before the curtain would fall on the horror film that was his life at Rosenkreuz.

A woman walked out of the main building and down the steps to the yard. She looked professional and bureaucratic down to her heels in her casual business clothes and with her hair swept up and tied in a bun. She was in charge of delivering the first assignments to the graduates. Schuldig knew that during the planning process, she had consulted the leaders of each division for open positions, and the head supervisor of Rosenkreuz for details on each candidate.

The inspector approached the head supervisor and exchanged a few words with him before they both walked in front of the double-row of hopeful, eager faces. None of the young graduates knew their assignments yet. The inspector only came once a year to pick up graduates, so some of them had been waiting after completing their final examinations for weeks, months even. This morning, they had been fitted with fresh clothes, told to pack up whatever personal belongings they had, and then ushered out here to wait for her.

Schuldig was the only one who had no personal belongings. It was a choice. He was not forbidden from having any. Actual money was not used in Rosenkreuz, but once they reached a certain level, the students could earn credit points for their performance in class. With credit points, they could buy benefits from the Rosenkreuz student shop. The shop stocked a variety of items such as magazines and sweets. Little things, tasters from the world outside.

At first, Schuldig had been delighted and curious. He had bought a few things. But he had grown tired of them quickly. When the items stopped being entertaining, they began to taunt him by their existence. They reminded him of everything he missed and of everything he couldn't remember ever having owned.

So he had come up with a different use for his credit points. He had continued to spend them in the small shop, but instead of buying anything for himself, he had acquired stuff he knew some of his fellow students wanted — to use as bribes for various favours. He had quickly become very popular indeed. By now, he was doing quite well for himself.

If Dietrich knew about his extra-curricular activities, he didn't mind. No raids were ever conducted in Schuldig's rooms to check whether he actually kept everything he bought. In fact, it looked like Dietrich actually approved of his choice. He had looked downright proud when Schuldig had walked out here empty-handed.

Schuldig had left behind what little belongings he had. He didn't want to take anything with him to remind him of this place.

The inspector flipped through a folder, not even glancing at the young graduates. Most of them were about Schuldig's age, but there were a couple of older and younger ones in the bunch. It would have been quite a usual selection, if not for Schuldig.

Schuldig was special. Everyone progressed through Rosenkreuz at their own pace, but most ended up leaving around the age of eighteen, give or take a year. Though Schuldig was about that age, there had been nothing usual about his progress. He had spent years in the laboratories and started his studies when he was only around fourteen, or fifteen — Schuldig didn't know his exact age, because he did not know his birthday. Crawford had said that they hadn't given him that information, only an approximation of his age.

Crawford.

Schuldig's excitement died with a gulp. Crawford had made all kinds of promises, and he had been back to Rosenkreuz every now and then since he had left, but where was he now?

Would they meet again soon?

Like the other graduates, Schuldig knew nothing of his first assignment. Despite his careful pestering, Dietrich had refused to say anything. Not that Schuldig had expected him to be particularly gracious. Dietrich did not want to let him go. He had made Schuldig earn his freedom every step of the way. Even now, a nagging doubt suggested that Dietrich might have betrayed his promises after all and used his influence on getting Schuldig assigned to Rosenkreuz instead of a field team.

"Most of you will travel with me," said the inspector, her voice tugging Schuldig's attention back to the present moment. She was looking at them. She had tired eyes, the kind of eyes that gave you the impression that she was bored with everything she saw. "I'll take you to your teams personally, with one exception." Her eyes suddenly darted to the end of the first line.

Directly to Schuldig.

Schuldig pulled his shoulders back a little more and met her eyes. His heart was suddenly racing. Was this it? Was she about to announce that he wasn't getting out after all? He brushed over her mind. She did not have defences that Schuldig could easily detect, but her thoughts were well ordered. On the surface, she was focused only on what she saw and was about to say.

"Schuldig," she said. "Step forward."

He did. Bowed for good measure. He could do a little more bowing and playing nice if it bought him his freedom.

Her eyes went over him. Still nothing of particular interest in her thoughts. She wasn't tense, like most people were when they knew that a telepath might be prying. She didn't give the impression of trying to keep her thoughts in check. She was simply there, calm and placid. She had probably dealt with many a telepath in the past.

Schuldig felt tempted to show her that he wasn't just _any_ telepath, but he held back. He was so close to getting out. He did not want to screw up by causing a scene.

"You're a special delivery," the inspector said dryly. "There was an incident in one of our teams. Long story short, the team needs a telepath for this mission, something happened to the team telepath, and we need to send in a new one urgently. We don't normally drop rookies in the thick of things, but we're in a rush and your records speak for you." Her thoughts tasted sharp like the edge of a glass shard. "It would be a detour for me to take you to your final destination, so you'll travel alone. You are expected to report to your team leader immediately upon arrival."

"Understood, Frau Inspektor," Schuldig said promptly. His stomach was doing back-flips. He would be sent off alone! To a new team in the middle of a mission! He was certain now that it was Crawford's team. What else could it be? It matched the visions Crawford had shared with him.

It was all coming true!

The rest of the graduates looked sour and jealous. A grin kept tugging at the corners of Schuldig's mouth. Yes, they better believe that he was special!

"Schuldig," Dietrich said. "A word with you before you go."

"Kindly be quick, Herr Dietrich," the inspector noted politely. "We need to leave soon."

Dietrich gave a passing nod to her before turning to Schuldig. He gestured the younger telepath to follow as he turned on his heels and started to walk toward a waiting car nearby. Schuldig hurried after him. Behind them, the inspector focused on the others. She started some speech Schuldig was happy to miss. His mind was bubbling with questions, eager to engage Dietrich for more information before he would be ushered into the car.

Dietrich spoke before he had the time to voice any of his questions. "You didn't think I would ever let you leave." His voice was more quiet than normal.

Schuldig hesitated for a second before his honest answer. "I had my doubts, Herr Dietrich." He softened his statement with, "I can see now that I was wrong to be worried."

"Mm. You would have been useful to me here."

"I'll be more useful to you out there."

"Will you."

It was not a question but it didn't need to be one. All bargains between them were solid as stone by now. Dietrich knew that once Schuldig walked out, he wasn't likely to return. But they both also knew that Dietrich's position made the head supervisor a force to be reckoned with even outside Rosenkreuz. His shadow would hang over Schuldig for as long as they were both alive. Dietrich would always keep an eye on him.

And he had expectations.

"I won't let you down, Herr Dietrich," Schuldig said. The promise dropped from his lips easily. He was so used to saying those words that they had lost their meaning, yet a hundred things were implied in between each syllable. Dietrich knew Schuldig's terms. For as long as Dietrich made it worth his while, Schuldig could cooperate.

Schuldig had learned that what he was really running from was not so much Rosenkreuz or Eszett or even Dietrich as it was his own helplessness. Crawford's sense of purpose had disappeared from his head when Crawford's physical manifestation had left Rosenkreuz, and Schuldig had rediscovered the uncomfortable shifting tides of human existence. He had listened to people until his head hurt, and he heard too many points of view and too many thoughts, and in all that confusion he found too much to believe in, and never enough.

Never enough.

His few supervised trips to nearby villages and his long hours in the company of test subjects and other students and all the clutter of people's everyday everything had shaped Schuldig's understanding of the concept of "freedom". It had changed. Matured. In a world made of fluctuating forces and constant uncertainty, Eszett represented something permanent. He had learned to accept the structure which the Order provided.

He would not have survived his training had he not learned. At the end of the day, Schuldig wanted to get out of Rosenkreuz not because of hatred for the institution or the people running it, but simply because there was *more* out there. More life to live.

Dietrich stopped. They had walked out of earshot of the other graduates but not close enough for the man waiting near the car to hear them, if they kept their voices down. Dietrich whirled around on his heels and touched Schuldig's shoulder. His grey eyes pierced Schuldig, scanning him like he was trying to find Schuldig's deepest thoughts. Maybe he was, though Schuldig could not sense the touch of his talent.

Schuldig kept his mind aligned and his shields in order, his mind arranged in a pattern that would shift in response to even the slightest hint of an attack.

One last show for his mentor's benefit.

But unlike during the exercises, no attack followed. Dietrich's hand moved from Schuldig's shoulder to fist a handful of red hair. It hurt.

"I've told them that you are the best telepath I've ever trained," he said darkly. "I trust you'll live up to my expectations."

A compliment. Dietrich did not hand those out lightly. Schuldig gave a proud, confident smile. Dietrich's cold, dark façade faltered. Schuldig kept his eyes fixed on Dietrich from under his brows. Something moved. The mute dark nothing that was Dietrich's presence let out a whisper of noise. It was indistinct and shapeless. Reluctant admiration.

A crack in the man's shields.

Schuldig's eyes caught an immediate glint. Like a predator that had caught sight of its prey, his gaze suggested that he might push through that crack.

_One last exercise, Herr Dietrich? Shall we play? _

But Dietrich did not pick up the game. His hand slipped out of Schuldig's hair and dropped to hang down, limp and useless. The two telepaths shared a silence like only two telepaths can. Nothing more needed to be said, and the future was wide open.

The future was waiting for Schuldig.

At last, Dietrich gave a resigned smile. "Remember what I've taught you," he murmured. "And you'll survive."

With that, he turned and continued to walk to the car. Schuldig shook his head quietly. He didn't need Dietrich's teachings. All he needed was himself. And from this moment on, he no longer needed to pretend anything else for Dietrich's benefit.

Schuldig followed his former master to the car. Grinning like a wolf. Triumphant.

Free.

* * *

Schuldig sat in the car seat with his cheek plastered against the window, trying to peer at the big gates they had just passed through. They were leaving Rosenkreuz facilities behind. He could practically hear the creak of the iron hinges. A blinding rush in his head squeezed out a tiny groan from his lips. Freedom. Finally.

Freedom!

Schuldig slumped back from the window only when he couldn't even see the walls anymore. He couldn't take his eyes off the view. Mountains. Once upon a time, Crawford's thoughts about the mountains had bled right into Schuldig's mind. Crawford had taught him about the world that waited for him out there, beyond the mountains.

Schuldig peered into the horizon and tracked the rising and falling line — the border between the sky and the earth. In his solitude, after Crawford had gone away, Schuldig had often sat like this, studying the shape of the mountains. He kept coming up with new ways to see them. Sometimes he imagined movement. Like the earth was breathing. Every mountaintop was an inhale, every downward slope an exhale.

Schuldig's grin settled to a happy smile. No longer did he have to be satisfied with imagining breathing mountains. Soon, he would fly over these mountains. His freedom was only some hours away. They would travel by car down the slope to a hidden, well guarded aircraft terminal. From there, their journey would continue via a private plane.

And then — freedom!

Schuldig had mission files to keep him busy until then. The inspector had given each graduate a suitcase that contained information about their assignments. She expected them to familiarise themselves with the details during the trip. Most of the others travelling in the same car with Schuldig were already busily opening their laptops or shuffling documents.

Schuldig picked up his suitcase. He found flight tickets and a laptop, with passwords in a separate envelope. He opened the lid of the laptop and dived right in. He wanted to know the name of his new team.

Crawford's team.

He was smiling all through the process of logging in and finding the correct files, but when he finally located the team information, he stopped to stare in shock. His smile vanished.

_Team name: Blutrot  
Team leader: Jarema Nowak_

Jarema Nowak.

Schuldig had never heard the name before. More importantly, it was not the one he had expected. He quickly browsed through the list of team members. It was not long. There was only one other name — and it was not Brad Crawford. He kept browsing through the files but he couldn't find any reference to Crawford even as a satellite member or an asset. None.

Then when would they meet again? Schuldig wiped his mouth. _Would_ they meet again? Had Crawford's visions changed? Schuldig had no way of knowing, and no way to contact Crawford to ask.

The shock left him reeling. Over the years, he had become fixed on the idea that his first team leader would be Brad Crawford. It was impossible to imagine Crawford's visions not coming true.

Schuldig tore his eyes off the laptop screen to look at the mountains again. Crawford had given them a meaning. The mountains had become a metaphor, a symbol, an idea. That idea was only one of the many thoughts that had bound them together during their complicated, convoluted dance for survival from the monster that was Rosenkreuz.

There was so much unfinished business between them.

Ah. But Schuldig shouldn't care.

Maybe he was only so bothered because this was another disappointment, another something that *they* took from him. He had become used to thinking that Crawford was waiting for him beyond these mountains. He felt like something important was stolen from him.

Schuldig immediately assumed that Dietrich had arranged this. The head supervisor didn't want Schuldig reunited with Crawford. Bitterly Schuldig considered taking off as soon as they left him at the airport. Take a bit of a detour. Say he got lost or something. Just to fuck with them. To fuck with Dietrich.

Schuldig brooded over the idea. Bitterly, he admitted to himself that he wouldn't really do it. They would find him. They would punish him. Might send him back to Rosenkreuz. He might never be let out again.

Maybe that's what Dietrich secretly hoped, knowing how impulsive Schuldig could be.

Well, he wouldn't give the man that satisfaction.

Schuldig glowered morosely at the scenery flitting by outside. *They* were still pulling his strings. Telling him where to go and how to do it, and, and, and fuck them.

Fuck them all.

* * *

Schuldig browsed the charity shop rack, shifting aside one jacket after another. The bubbling voices were like insects flying in circles around his head. Chatter-chatter-chatter. He didn't bother keeping track of which thoughts he picked up telepathically and which were vocalised.

Schuldig had a bit of time to waste before he was supposed to meet his new team leader in a designated bistro down the street. He had decided to look up some new clothes while waiting. His expensive suit gave him an itch. It was a Rosenkreuz accessory. He wanted out of it as soon as possible. He wanted to erase every last remnant that reminded him of the institution and the Order. He was free now. Free to choose his clothes. So he would.

Something as inappropriate as possible.

He could have afforded to take his business somewhere better than a second-hand charity shop. In fact, as a telepath, he could have 'shopped' anywhere he damned well pleased and made sure the shopkeepers never knew what hit them, but money had nothing to do with why he was here. He didn't want expensive suits or trendy shirts or whatever was in fashion. This place was precisely what he wanted. Random. Filled with possibilities. You never knew what people would bring here.

He tracked the hangers with his fingers. No, no, no, no. No. Hmm. No.

Ah. What about that one?

He spotted a green jacket hanging off the end of one rack as though on display. Nice enough a cut. Perhaps the eye-catching golden buttons were a bit much, but there was something vaguely familiar about the jacket. Military-style. Not unlike a uniform.

Hmm. Oh, the irony...

Schuldig assessed the jacket critically. He reached out to pick it off the hanger — but another hand collided with his. He looked up in surprise. Though the chatter easily masked individual voices around him, he should have noticed someone getting so close..!

He met a discreet smile and a pair of honey brown eyes twinkling behind large metal-framed glasses. "Excuse me. I believe I saw that first."

Schuldig gaped at the calm, composed figure in a black suit. The man's large hand covered Schuldig's hand on the shoulder of the green jacket. His mind was silent and smooth like fine, undisturbed sand at the bottom of a pond. The chatter-chatter-chatter easily masked his presence.

But now that Schuldig had detected him, his attention was anchored. He locked on this mind automatically, because this mind was...

"...Crawford."

He didn't say it like a question, but it _was_ a question. It was an entire ocean of questions.

Crawford's gaze flicked in the direction of their hands. He cocked an eyebrow at Schuldig. Like he expected the telepath to let go.

Ohh, no. No, no. Schuldig tightened his grip of the jacket. His eyes narrowed to slits. He hadn't really been sure if he wanted the jacket — hell, he still wasn't sure — but on principle, he wasn't about to let Crawford have it without explanation.

"What are you doing here?" Schuldig demanded.

"Same as you."

"Shopping for new clothes? Here?" Schuldig's brows rained disbelief all over the idea that Crawford would ever, ever shop _here_.

"You might put it that way."

"Oh? And what other way might you put it?" Schuldig was beginning to remember how utterly annoying Crawford could be. He was getting so irritated, in fact, that he considered dropping the matter — and the jacket — and taking off. Crawford could chase after, if he felt like giving straight answers.

But before the thought turned into reality, Crawford brought a few straight answers one step closer. "You aren't here shopping for new clothes." He held onto Schuldig's hand tighter.

"Oh?" Schuldig made a point of standing perfectly still. Like a predator lying in wait.

The prey was coming closer. Leaning in. But Crawford's lips were not aiming for Schuldig's mouth. They whispered in his ear. "You're here shopping for a new life."

Schuldig transcribed Crawford's implications backwards to the beginning of the exchange and made all the connections in a heartbeat. He moved his head so that their cheeks nearly touched.

"And what kind of new life are _you_ expecting to buy here?" he returned. He kept his tone calm, but his heart was racing. What _was_ Crawford looking for? He wasn't Schuldig's team leader. Why was he here? What was he planning?

Crawford chuckled like the all-knowing, full-of-his-future Oracle that he was. He didn't answer. Of course he didn't. He would never give those straight answers. He was just there, waiting for the correct moments, pacing his life according to seconds and minutes of life that had been already lived. You never knew how much he had seen.

Crawford's body was warm and his fingers were strong and when he was so close, his presence was pervasive, invading all of Schuldig's senses at once.

"It's been a while," Crawford murmured.

Schuldig swallowed all his words. Crawford's breath brushed over Schuldig's cheek like a caress. Schuldig inhaled the smell of his cologne. The scent was different. He didn't remember this at all.

Ah. It had been a while, indeed. Crawford was different. He smelled different. He sounded different.

With half-lidded eyes, Schuldig stole a sideways look at Crawford's profile from the corner of his eye. Crawford's jaws were relaxed. You might have called that a smile. But Schuldig knew him. This was no courtesy call. Crawford was here on business. Crawford's motivations were never simple.

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow. "I'm touched that you're taking the time for all this foreplay, but would it kill you to get to the point? You're not supposed to be here."

"That's a strange thing to say to a precognitive," Crawford observed. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be at this time."

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "Fuck you, Crawford," he said sincerely.

Crawford dismissed the insult.

_» But I agree, it's time we move on from the pleasantries. »_ Crawford's thoughts punctured the chatter-chatter-chatter of the charity shop customers like a blinding flash in a sea of flickering lights, more brilliant than all the rest. _» I'm here to inform you that you're about to walk into a trap. There's a man waiting to shoot you at that bistro. »_

Schuldig narrowed his eyes. But he didn't need to ask his immediate question — why — because Crawford offered the answer even as Schuldig was about to think it out.

_» They want to kill you before you can alert anyone to the disappearance of Mr. Nowak's team. »_

_» Disappearance? What's happened to them? »_

_» The team's base of operations was compromised. The entire team was killed and some sensitive Eszett equipment went missing. »_

_» Does Eszett know? »_

_» Mixing Eszett authorities into this would unnecessarily complicate my plans. I intend to track down the enemy team and retrieve the equipment they stole. »_

_» All by yourself? »_

_» I could use some help. »_

It was more an offer than an answer. Their thoughts zinged back and forth effortlessly. Their minds touched like they had never been apart, like two pieces of a puzzle that had always belonged together, and always would. Schuldig remembered Rosenkreuz training missions and combat exercises. He remembered how they had moved together, so synchronised that you couldn't tell which one had started the motion and which one finished it.

Schuldig remembered exactly why he had missed Crawford all these years. It was so easy with Crawford. Schuldig was ultimately a lazy creature. He liked things easy.

He accepted Crawford's offer. _» How do we do it? »_

_» They know about you. Like I said, one of them will be at the bistro to shoot you. I intend to capture him there. Then we can use him to locate and retrieve the stolen equipment and execute rest of the group. »_

Schuldig saw the benefits of the plan. This would look good on his record. Taking down enemy agents and recovering Eszett property on his first day as a field agent? It was an accomplishment not many operatives could boast over. He started to smile.

_» All right. So how will I recognise this would-be assassin? »_

_» You won't. This is not an ordinary human. He's a telepath. He's not particularly strong, but stealth is his speciality. He'll know how to be undetectable to you. »_

That stopped Schuldig cold. He dropped his smile. That explained how Nowak's previous telepath had got killed, but it raised other concerns. _» We're fighting another psychic team? »_

_» No. Just one telepath. A former Eszett agent gone rogue. He has a couple of humans helping him. »_

A rogue telepath. A telepath who wanted to break free from Eszett.

Shit.

Schuldig remembered the previous time he had had to deal with a situation like this. His loyalty to the Order had been put to the test. He remembered the chase. The pain. The bodies. Warm bodies. Cold bodies. Fumbling hands. A lake and cold water and warm sand and a warm fire, and everything after.

Everything.

Crawford's breath warmed his cheek, reproducing a particular part of that everything. Schuldig closed his eyes. He wanted both to remember and to forget.

"I know precisely where he will be," Crawford promised quietly. "I'll handle him."

Schuldig turned his head to almost touch Crawford's cheek with his lips. To almost reproduce another part of the everything that was in the past. Almost.

"You expect me to play bait," Schuldig whispered.

"Do you have objections?"

The silence between them was thick with questions and concerns and second thoughts. To be partners, they would have to trust their lives in each other's hands. The kind of trust Crawford asked from him was really nothing but business. Just an exchange. Nothing more. At the end of the day, it was safe kind of trust. Something Schuldig didn't have to think or worry about.

So why did it feel like dipping a bleeding limb into a shark pool?

Their hands still rested on the green jacket, and people were beginning to stare. The voices in Schuldig's head were aligning and concentrating — everyone was curious about them, wanted to know what they were saying, who they were, why they were looking at one another like that, standing so close, whispering to each other.

His gaze darted from over Crawford's shoulder to the few curious eyes that kept flicking their way. They were long past the point where they could fool anyone into thinking that they were just arguing over the ownership of a jacket no one had purchased yet.

They were negotiating over something, but it wasn't the jacket. Crawford was hunting for something else entirely. He moved like his mouth might seek Schuldig's ear, to whisper some sweet suggestions.

But instead, Crawford dropped the pursuit. "Well. It's your choice, of course. I'll be at the bistro. Come, if you want. I can take care of this without you if I must." With that, Crawford let go of Schuldig's hand and turned on his heels.

His disappearing body left a huge space.

"Hey."

Crawford stopped. He turned his head only just enough to indicate that he was listening. Schuldig opened his mouth.

No words came out. Damn it. He wanted to say _something_ to that black suit. There was so much unfinished business — lying at the bottom of that shark pool Crawford was asking him to wade in.

He finally went with, "You don't want this anymore?" Schuldig indicated the jacket, but he was talking about something that was much more animated than a piece of green cloth. Crawford didn't need to be a telepath to know how to tempt men's fondest desires. Schuldig had seen him work on his targets just like this.

He had never seen Crawford leave the table until the game was finished and he had collected the prize.

Crawford flashed him a smile from over his shoulder. "When fishing, I'm fine with losing the bait if I'm happy with the catch." He started to walk away.

Catch?

Schuldig muttered an emphatic 'fuck you' after the black suit. _Fuck you, Crawford. Fuck you, Oracle. You haven't caught anything._

Crawford sauntered over to the door and opened it to let in a flood of sunlight. He stepped out, dissolved into the light like a ghost. And Schuldig was alone with the curious chatter-chatter-chatter of the dusty shop.

Schuldig turned to look at the eye-catching green jacket with the golden buttons. A mockery of the Very Serious Business *they* liked to make of their uniform. The bait.

Suddenly, he felt like laughing. It was a fucking well planned bait. Of course it would catch his eye. Of course he would walk over to it. Of course he would want to touch it. Of course Crawford would only ever be interested in it to fuck with Schuldig's head.

It was always the simple things with Crawford that became meaningful. The little things. The details Schuldig couldn't expect anyone else to notice.

Schuldig considered Crawford's offer. He thought about the benefits and the downsides of screwing with Crawford's expectations and the price of putting a scratch on that precognitive confidence. He considered the rogue telepath and tests of loyalty and the smart thing to do.

So many possibilities. And the jacket? Possibly picking it up would fulfil some twisted prophecy that could only happen if Schuldig was wearing this stupid jacket.

Schuldig shook his head. He would get a headache from trying to figure out what Crawford wanted him to do and why. It wasn't worth the trouble. He was free now. He would do whatever he pleased. Schuldig pulled the jacket off the hanger.

There was certain comfort in assuming that Crawford had known all along why he would do just that.

* * *

Schuldig placed his palms on the sill of the only window in the dimly lit room. He leaned his weight forward. He pretended to be occupied with the view, but his eyes were fixed onto a speck of dirt on the glass.

Behind him, a man was lying on the floor, his hands tied behind his back.

"He's awake," Schuldig whispered.

Crawford probably didn't need him to tell him that. Clop. Clop. Clop. Crawford walked over to the man and knelt beside him. Schuldig listened to the sound of Crawford's hand patting the man's cheeks to stir him fully. He listened to the angry-scared-scattered mind becoming aware of where he was.

"I'll tell you nothing," hissed the bitter voice.

"Of course you won't," Crawford's deep, calm voice rolled. Click. The sound of a gun prepared for firing. Schuldig almost wanted to turn around to see Crawford holding the gun like the professional that he was.

But he felt those eyes boring to the back of his head. Bright, shining, angry blue. A little too close to home.

A little too close. Everything in this room was a little too close.

"Just get it over with! You'll get nothing out of me," swore the man and Schuldig knew he was talking to Schuldig and Schuldig alone. One telepath to another.

Schuldig did not respond.

"Oh, we don't need to get anything out of you," Crawford said calmly. "I'll be able to find your friends. I just thought I would give you a chance to save yourself."

Words of honey and promises half-made. Not entirely unlike the words with which Crawford had tempted another telepath long time ago. One with red hair.

Schuldig's fingers twitched. He might as well have been this telepath, lying on his stomach in a dirty motel room, helpless and waiting for his judgement, but defiant to the last. He stared at the dirt in the glass, trying to compress his entire existence to that single tiny speck.

It was easy. His entire life was made from tiny specks of dirt just like this one. This one, and the one lying on the floor behind him.

"What, you going to cut me a deal?" spat the telepath. "What do you think you've got I haven't heard before?"

"One might expect a little more gratitude."

"I'm not in the habit of thanking people for shooting me."

"I haven't shot you yet."

Schuldig sensed the blue eyes trading a telepath for a precognitive. "Don't you think I can see it in your eyes? Don't you think I can hear it in your thoughts?"

"You have a high opinion of your ability to read people," Crawford said calmly. "But I assure you that Eszett has better use for you alive than dead."

The man's breath was caught in his chest. Schuldig didn't have to read his mind to know where his thoughts went. White coats and black uniforms and needles and restraints and voices that drowned out your screams.

"Did you really think they would waste an asset?" Crawford murmured. "They are eager to welcome you home, Adam."

The air was heavy throughout the lengthy pause during which the telepath pointedly refused to ask how they knew his name.

Crawford's tone was a touch more amused. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to reconsider listening to me?"

Grudgingly but certainly...

"He's listening," Schuldig whispered.

"Excellent. You see, Adam, I would have use for someone like you. To take out a fully trained, experienced Eszett team with the help of just a few humans, you need to be something special. So I would like to make you an offer. Let my associate here tell you more about your options."

The telepath wavered. Schuldig let him think that he could be a precognitive, looking at Crawford's eyes. Two options. One, torture followed by too slow death. The other, a fool's only hope, too good to be true.

In Rosenkreuz, they were taught not to be fools.

Ah, indeed, Rosenkreuz — Schuldig saw a flicker, a sliver of a memory. He pushed gently. The man was thinking about it not longer than for the length of one sharp inhale, but Schuldig seized the idea and pulled like he was flicking a latch open. The catch was loose, the lever hanging limp, the lock wasn't there. The other telepath's fear poured out in Schuldig's lap. He added a glimpse of too vast, desolate places without hope and with too much light. Blinding white light that hurt your eyes and hurt your brain.

_*** They will gut your brain. ***_

Through pursed lips, a moan escaped. It took but a gentle nudge to drive his victim to eagerly cling onto the easier option, the fool's hope. Schuldig gave him plenty of "no more" and "more, more" of the correct varieties. It didn't take a great deal of pushing.

Maybe he'd take them to the motel room, give them what they wanted. It didn't matter if they killed his human accomplices to keep the secret. He didn't care, just so long as he got away. They'd let him go.

Schuldig kept staring at the speck of dirt on the glass. He swept aside a defence after defence, slithered in from under all the doors, sneaked around every corner. He found the motel. He prodded a memory after memory, deeper and deeper.

Behind him, Crawford studied the wide open blue eyes that didn't see him. The telepaths' minds escaped to dance in a place only they could navigate.

Crawford waited.

Until Schuldig straightened his back. "Done." His voice was toneless.

The man started to blink rapidly. It would take him a moment to reorientate his mind. Crawford stood up. He lifted the gun and took aim.

"Wait." Schuldig turned around, with eyes hard and demanding.

Crawford looked up from under his brows. He did not lower the gun. Schuldig walked over to him. They stood face to face over the body that was still under the impression it was alive.

"Hey!" The gun had registered. "You said you wanted to hire me."

Schuldig never took his eyes off Crawford's eyes. His eyes spoke volumes. _That could be me. Maybe that is me, some day._

Crawford cocked an eyebrow. "I never promised anything to you, Adam." But the statement was intended for Schuldig's benefit, not Adam's.

"You bastard! I gave you the information!" screamed the outraged telepath from their feet. He was tugging his bonds.

Crawford crushed his windpipe with the heel of his boot. The telepath's voice died with a broken gurgle.

"No, Adam," Crawford said softly, never taking his eyes off Schuldig. "The information was taken from you. You are a fool to cross Eszett so openly. But to thank you for making this so easy for us, I'll let you go." Crawford pulled the trigger. The silencer muffled the noise from the blast.

Adam's body twitched. For the last time. A deep silence settled into the dimly lit room. Schuldig didn't look at the body. Blue ice pierced Crawford.

"Adam Malinowski was a loose canon. He would not have been useful to us." And then Crawford waited.

Waited for Schuldig to make up his mind about all kinds of unfinished business, culminating in a single question neither of them voiced. But both were thinking it.

_Do you still want to be partners?_

Schuldig considered Crawford's stoic face. "You didn't promise him anything. But you promised me."

"That I did."

That made a difference. But...

"It's a fine line," Schuldig whispered.

Crawford nodded sagely. Like an Oracle. "It is."

Schuldig wanted to think that they were talking about the same thing. But he didn't ask. Just in case he would hear the wrong answer.

Crawford replaced his gun inside his jacket. "We better go. Adam's little helpers will get suspicious if he's not back soon, and it'll be harder to catch them if they have time to relocate."

Crawford fell back into form so easily. Like no dirt would ever stick to him.

Schuldig finally dropped his gaze on the body. It was a clean shot. Crawford kind of clean.

* * *

"So, what's next?" Schuldig threw his new green jacket in the back seat. It was too warm for a jacket. He couldn't understand how Crawford tolerated the black suit in this weather.

Crawford pulled the car door shut and started the engine. "The hotel," he said simply. To be fair, it would have been a perfectly valid answer, had Schuldig intended to ask about their immediate destination.

"That's not what I meant. We have the equipment and everything is right in Eszett's precious world once more. But there's still Blutrot's original mission and that dead team thing."

"Ah. Yes. That." Crawford backed the car out into the street. "I'll file a report later today. They'll approve my request to take over this mission. You'll be assigned to my team."

"Your team?" Schuldig glanced over to the back seat. "This is your team?" His eyes glinted with laughter. "They're all invisible? Oh, Sean, is that you?" He waved at the empty seats.

"You will be the first member of my team," Crawford conceded. "But I'm due for a promotion, and anyway, they need someone to take over this mission quickly. I'm qualified to lead a team and I'm already here."

Schuldig eyed Crawford curiously. "That reminds me. Why _are_ you here? You weren't mentioned in the mission files."

"I'm a special agent. It's what I do."

"Butt into other people's business?"

Crawford switched gears. "I go where I'm needed. I was investigating another case, but I had some visions about what was going on here. So now I'm here."

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow. "You had visions of me getting shot?"

Crawford was awfully quiet. Even for Crawford. Schuldig's smile slowly died. While it was a comforting thought that Crawford might have saved his life, it was also a problem.

Schuldig didn't want to owe anything to anybody.

He studied Crawford's serious face. In the excitement of taking out Adam's associates and retrieving the equipment, Schuldig had not had the time to think about Crawford or the future, but now they were off duty and out of danger. Now he could stop to wonder. One very important question hung on his lips.

_Did you let Nowak's team get killed just so you could have me?_

It was a bit cold even for Crawford. Wasn't it? Hmm. Ah, but no. Even if Crawford had purposefully let Nowak's team die, he had done it for himself — to get this mission, and to get his promotion. Schuldig was just a side product of a job well done.

Schuldig turned his eyes back to the window. The events at the motel had went by in a blur. He and Crawford had taken out the humans easily, but not without bloodshed. The targets were nothing but faceless, meaningless bodies, only their minds alive in Schuldig's head, their fear and anger feeding the heat and the power coursing through his veins. He had learned to harness the chaotic emotions that would tear through his system. He used adrenaline like a weapon.

But it wasn't so easy to shake, afterwards.

The temperature wasn't helping. He rolled up his sleeves and released the top buttons of his white shirt. As he did, he caught something from the other side of the car. Crawford was watching. Schuldig drew his tongue over his lips. Mm.

Crawford.

Crawford had been as professional as ever. Exactly as Schuldig remembered from Rosenkreuz. They still worked together naturally, like two different but compatible weapons. Schuldig thought about the fierce twist of Crawford's mouth as the last body fell. He thought about the growl on those slightly parted lips. The gunfight had got Crawford's blood running hot.

Their eyes had met across the dead bodies. Crawford's gaze had spread honey down Schuldig's body.

But neither of them had crossed any lines.

Schuldig's fingers searched down on his shirt, flicking open a button after button. He was tempting Crawford to continue from where they had left off. He listened for a hint of something, anything, from the other side of the car like a hunter straining his ears to hear his prey.

But Crawford was like a statue. No tracks for the hunter to follow.

Schuldig got the shirt unbuttoned halfway down the chest before he gave up the chase. Damn. Not willing to yield his position as the one looked at, rather than the one doing the looking, he turned to the car window. Absently, he fixed the position of his sunglasses on his nose. He needed something else to focus on.

He didn't have to look far to find it. The people were there. Schuldig quickly fell back on his favourite leisure activity — sampling people's minds. He tasted one here and another one there, and quickly, his mood started to change. He caught a few girls watching them as they drove by. They liked the car. Damn he liked the way he looked in their heads. He considered poking in a bit farther.

"Try to stay in the car, Schuldig," noted Crawford.

Schuldig let out a low, sultry laugh. "Ach, you're no fun."

But he let the girls disappear into the crowd. No matter. He could have a dozen girls just like them. He had all the time in the world now. A languid smile spread on his lips. This was how it could be from now on.

Freedom.

...with Crawford behind the wheel. Crawford, who held a gun like he might grip a man's heart in his fist.

Schuldig licked his lips. "So you'll be my team leader, huh? I guess that means I should call you Herr Crawford. Eh?" He tasted the name. "Brad Crawford, my team leader... Brad Crawford..." That creature in the black suit had so many names. "Oracle..." He rolled the names off his tongue one at a time. A low, smoky laugh finished with, "Herr Crawford. You don't prefer 'sir'?"

"It's enough that you follow regulations," Crawford noted calmly from the driver's seat.

Suddenly, Schuldig realised that there was something eerily familiar about this. They had gone over this conversation before... oh! Crawford's visions! Schuldig had seen this years ago. He recognised every detail. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and they had both spoken their lines precisely as in the vision.

Schuldig waited with a suspended breath to see whether Crawford would follow the pre-set pattern to the letter. Would he feel compelled, just to make his visions come true?

They hit a red light. Lots of traffic. They were stuck.

Schuldig listened... and that's right. Crawford started to drum the gear shift.

"Listen. I'm going to have to drop you off at the hotel and go take care of some business."

Schuldig remembered every word. It was strange to remember how the conversation would continue before it had ever happened. He remembered that he was supposed to be distracted by the minds outside, but he wasn't distracted now. Remembering the vision had taken those thoughts clean out of his mind and brought his focus fully to this moment. It wouldn't be the same for him. But if he wanted to see this vision come true, he would need to pretend.

He wondered how Crawford stomached living like this, speaking lines like an actor on stage. How often did this happen to him? How often did he see such precise, detailed visions?

"You know what I'm going to say next," Crawford said softly.

Schuldig jolted. That wasn't in the script. Schuldig looked at Crawford in surprise. The golden eyes met him calmly. Schuldig didn't know what to say. The moment was shattered. He felt a strange lurch in his stomach. Like a piece of his insides were ripped out. He was disappointed.

How stupid!

"We'll be stuck in this traffic for a while," Crawford went on. "We can waste time discussing why I can't take you with me and whether or not I've missed you, and we can even talk about your hair, or you can just tell me why you wanted to play this out. Did you want the excuse to fuck with these people's minds?" He nodded toward the window.

In the vision, Crawford had suggested a kiss. Schuldig would have to tweak the memories of anyone who saw them. The task felt disproportioned to the significance of the affair — two men kissing in their car in the middle of afternoon traffic was hardly a life-threatening memory. Still. Schuldig knew that Crawford didn't want to attract that kind of attention. He wanted to keep their relationship private. Even without Eszett rules and regulations, he wasn't interested in that kind of hassle.

In the now never-to-be future, Crawford had promised to include the event in his report — properly modified to exclude the kissing. Altering several minds at once was not an easy task. It would look nice on Schuldig's record.

Schuldig's gaze drifted away. He liked showing off, so it was a fair assumption that he had wanted the excuse to mess around in people's heads. Schuldig was not going to admit that he had actually been curious about how that kiss would taste in the reality and whether Crawford would be filled with sweet yearning like he had been in the vision. He was — damn it — disappointed.

So of course he laughed it off.

"What, you want to skip the foreplay and dive right into the kiss?" Schuldig winked. "Well, now that we're changing shit, why don't I just climb on the roof and yell instead? Or I could shoot someone. Or do whatever it was you were going to write in that report." Schuldig eyed Crawford curiously. "What were you going to write, anyway?"

"I've been wondering the same thing."

Schuldig frowned. "What?"

"I haven't thought of anything I might write that wouldn't either harm your reputation or be ridiculously far-fetched. I could always change the setting altogether, but that would defeat the purpose."

Schuldig processed it for precisely ten seconds. "So you weren't going to write any report?" Schuldig's frown deepened into a scowl. "You lied to me?"

Crawford cocked a curious eyebrow. "Lied? Past tense?"

Schuldig made a face. "I hate temporal theory," he muttered, then shot an angry look at Crawford. "Well, fine. You _would_ have lied to me."

"Yes, Schuldig. And you would have let me," Crawford said calmly. "You're not stupid. You know there's nothing sensible I could write in that report, unless I changed the setting entirely. And did you really expect me to make up a story in an official Eszett report?"

Silence. They held each other's eyes.

Schuldig didn't like the big hairy cat Crawford had just dropped on the table. Crawford was pushing the subject of the kiss and whether or not Schuldig had wanted it. He knew that had they followed the script, by now Crawford's hand would have been travelling from the gear shift to Schuldig's thigh. Schuldig would have been trying to decide whether to push it away. He had no idea what his honest reaction would have been right now, had the intruding hand been there. Maybe to punch Crawford in the face.

That sounded like an excellent idea, actually, even without the intruding hand.

Schuldig was not willing to admit anything.

"I think that's a bad way to begin a partnership," Crawford said.

"What?" Schuldig snapped. Having spent years under constant telepathic supervision, for just a second, Schuldig mistook Crawford's comment for a sign that his thoughts had bled out from behind his shields. He went full tilt defensive. He was about to tell Crawford that he had never actually agreed that there should even _be_ a partnership, when —

"Lies," Crawford interrupted his thoughts. "Lies are a bad way to start a partnership. So I decided to change the future."

Schuldig was lost for words. Somehow, the way Crawford said it... so matter-of-fact, so calm...

"Just like that. You decided to change the future."

"Yes."

There probably should not have been anything funny about it. But there was. Though he was still annoyed, Schuldig couldn't help his lips twitching. "That how you always do it? Just like that, change the future? No big deal?"

Crawford wasn't smiling. He was as serious as a tombstone.

"Yes."

The meditated pace and the gravity of Crawford's tone was making the situation even funnier. Schuldig picked his sunglasses off his nose, to reveal his twinkling eyes. He didn't even try to hold back the smile anymore. A little laugh washed away his upset.

"So you're trying to be the good guy and do the right thing? You decided to be all honest with me." He leaned in and placed his hand on top of Crawford's on the gear shift. The golden eyes dropped briefly, then climbed up. "Think that's going to get you rewarded, like in fairy tales?"

Crawford sat so very, very still. Schuldig contemplated whether the ripples in time had settled yet. Whether Crawford knew what was coming. Schuldig leaned in a bit closer.

"You know the difference between fairy tales and reality though?"

Crawford searched Schuldig's eyes, concentrated like an archaeologist trying to transcribe an ancient manuscript. He didn't answer.

Just a little bit closer. Schuldig felt Crawford's warm breaths on his face. "In reality, there are no good guys."

Steady warm breathing. Steady. Steady. Then a tiny pause right before Crawford's lips parted to speak. "Then what kind of guys are there?"

"There's those who kill." Schuldig grabbed the collar of the black suit in his fist. "And those who get killed." He tilted his head up, to remind Crawford of just precisely where and how close his mouth was.

Crawford's gaze dropped. It was only a tiny passing glance, but it signalled sweet, sweet victory for Schuldig. He didn't have to read Crawford's mind to know that the precognitive was thinking about his mouth. There was a good chance Crawford wanted to use his lips to prove that he was one of those who killed.

Point for Schuldig.

With a smirk, Schuldig let go of Crawford's suit and leaned back. He replaced his sunglasses on his nose with a careless flick of the hand and turned back to the window. "Thank you for your honesty, Herr Crawford."

Crawford did not move. He had not physically moved the entire time. But his fingers squeezed the gear shift awfully tight.

They spent the rest of the car ride in silence.

* * *

The screen in the dark room sprung to life, revealing a view into what appeared to be someone's study. Someone with a very expensive taste. A black-haired man in a black uniform was sitting behind a large, ebony desk. The wall behind him was lined with bookshelves.

The light from the screen illuminated Crawford's figure. He was standing with his hands behind his back a few steps away from the screen and the camera.

"Good evening, Herr Dietrich," Crawford said and dipped his head.

The man behind his desk did not return the gesture. Dietrich did not speak.

"I've just finished filing my reports, Herr Dietrich."

"I assume that I will find a request to formalise the establishment of a new team in those reports."

"Yes. My proposal is the same I presented to you in my last review."

Dietrich leaned forward and knit his fingers on top of the desk. "What sort of a telepath trading game do you think you are playing?"

Crawford frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't understand, Herr Dietrich."

"You don't? Hmm." Dietrich tapped his thumbs together. "Adam Malinowski could probably prove that to be a lie, were he alive to testify."

"Adam Malinowski? I'm terribly sorry for his fate, Herr Dietrich, but I did what I had to. Rest assured, I would have brought him to you, if..."

Dietrich cut him off, "Oh, I'm sure I'll find a convenient excuse in your report as to why you had to execute him instead of sending him here. That's not what I mean. Adam Malinowski did not kill Nowak's telepath."

Crawford closed his mouth.

"I cannot prove anything, of course," Dietrich mused. "But it strikes me as a terribly convenient coincidence that a telepath gets killed in a team that's engaged on a mission that absolutely requires a gifted telepath at the exact moment the most gifted telepath I have ever trained becomes available on the market."

"I understand what you mean to imply, Herr Dietrich, but I don't see how getting Schuldig assigned to Mr. Nowak's team should help me."

"Mm. Not unless something happened to Nowak while you were suitably positioned to take his place. Awfully convenient that our most elusive rogue telepath turns up and takes care of that problem for you."

"It's equally convenient that I was not qualified to put in a request for a telepath when Schuldig became available, Herr Dietrich," Crawford added softly. He cocked an eyebrow. "But of course, I cannot prove anything, either."

"At least I haven't tried to murder you," whispered Dietrich darkly. "I know you have a past with Nowak. When I first heard about Schuldig's assignment, I assumed that Nowak was your friend and that you wanted Schuldig with someone you could trust. Perhaps I was being naïve." Dietrich narrowed his eyes. "How _did_ all these people die, Oracle? Please tell me that Adam Malinowski killed _somebody_."

Crawford raised a single indignant eyebrow in challenge to the implied accusation.

Dietrich shook his head. "How many men did you murder to get your hands on my telepath?" he whispered.

"No innocent men were harmed in the making of this team," Crawford returned coldly.

"Team, Oracle? You really expect me to approve your request?"

"It's time you relaxed your grip of the reins, Herr Dietrich. Your demon will turn on you if you try to cage it now that it has tasted freedom. You don't want him to end up like Adam Malinowski, do you?"

A dark cloud settled over Dietrich. The man didn't speak for a good minute.

"Keep him well, Oracle," he finally whispered with a thick voice. "Keep him well for me."

With that, he cut the connection, leaving Crawford smiling at the black screen.

* * *

"Crawford," Schuldig called from the window. "Look."

He listened for Crawford's footsteps. Carefully measured steps. Clop. Clop. Clop. Crawford was already dressed for the day, geared and suited up, ready for action. Schuldig knew without looking.

He was carefully positioned in the wrong place. It wasn't so much the location as it was the timing and the way he was dressed, or indeed, not dressed. He was standing in the living room of the hotel suite Crawford had booked for them. He was fresh out of the shower, towel carelessly wrapped around his waist, peering out into the street from between the curtains. He should have been dressed by now. But he wasn't.

Schuldig was fishing.

Crawford made no comment. Schuldig watched his reflection shifting on the glass. Crawford was wearing a different suit today. Schuldig stole a glance over his shoulder.

White. All white.

Crawford stopped behind Schuldig and grabbed a good fistful of the tangled, wild sunset mane. He made sure that the lithe, half-naked creature was secured in between his body and the window. Schuldig caught an impression in Crawford's mind, one blinding flash — the morning light floated on every wonderfully aligned curve of Schuldig's half-naked body. Ah, Crawford delighted in the sight.

"I always look," came the whisper in Schuldig's ear.

Schuldig made sure Crawford could sense his accomplished smile on the inside of his brain. Another point in his favour. This round of games was starting well. Schuldig relished in the taste of Crawford's mind. Crawford made no secret of what he wanted to do. His hands ran up and down on Schuldig's naked skin, meticulously exploring every inch. His desire was intoxicating.

Crawford looked up. Schuldig met his eyes from over his shoulder, his cheek pressed up against the glass. The proud, smug curve of the mouth gave away his pleasure. The sunlight gave a soft glow to Schuldig's pale skin. It set the sunset hair ablaze.

Beautiful. That's what Crawford was thinking. Beautiful. Over and over.

Schuldig's smug smile deepened. The fish had taken the bait.

Crawford's lips warmed the redhead's cheek. He inhaled the smell of that fresh washed hair. He smiled into the kiss near Schuldig's ear.

"Welcome home, my demon."

Home. Schuldig became very still at that word. He hadn't expected it. Something at the pit of his stomach lurched uncomfortably. His eyes were a touch wider now, and he kept searching Crawford's face, like he might find the explanation to his own feelings from there.

"It's just a hotel room, Crawford," he whispered. He didn't move. He was confused now. Crawford's words had turned his game off track.

And then a triumphant smile spread on Crawford's lips. Schuldig recognised that expression — something was coming true, right at this moment. He recognised that gleeful yearning in Crawford's eyes. Crawford's mind moved, like a switch turned to a different position. Like he was wearing steel armour but the light was shining through the cracks in between the plates. All sound, and yet soundless.

Crawford's eyes wandered from Schuldig's face to the view below while his hands continued to explore the redhead's body. From the purposeful movements of his hands, Schuldig knew he had a plan. Crawford's fingertips chased sparks down his body. Warmth and the sweet agony of anticipation swelled like a tidal wave, and Schuldig lost track of whose desire had him holding his breath. Schuldig did not know what he wanted to say, but he held words on his tongue, ready to spill out.

Crawford growled, low from the throat. Schuldig shivered. That was the sound of a thousand disappointments breaking into agonised rapture. _At last._ That's what Crawford was thinking. The tidal wave overwhelmed Schuldig. Schuldig's gasp was locked in his lungs. He threw his head back. Ah! This was it. The yearning he had wanted to sense in the car. His heart was racing. Crawford's reaction was more powerful than he had dared to hope.

He wanted more.

More.

He struggled not to get swept in too deep under the tidal wave. He was not planning on letting Crawford win. He intended to walk away at a carefully selected moment, leaving Crawford wanting more.

Mmmm. More...

Suddenly, Crawford's mind changed shape again. The transition happened smoothly, like liquid turning into vapour. Schuldig got the strangest floating feeling. Distance.

He was very familiar with this particular kind of distance.

"You see something," he whispered. "What do you see?"

Crawford took a Moment. His eyes lingered in the view below. Crawford was here, yet not here. He was in the future, and in the past, and all points in time met here in the present, where he followed predestination of his own choosing. It occurred to Schuldig that Crawford had the power to turn back time, because a man who saw the future yesterday could always change his tomorrow.

For the length of a heartbeat, he thought that Crawford was going to speak something profoundly important. Schuldig steeled himself to listen, all games forgotten, but—

"That café down there... I think I'll have my breakfast there." Crawford kissed his neck. "Are you coming?" He left the question there, on Schuldig's warm skin.

Tingling, flushed skin. The game was ruined. Schuldig had meant to get Crawford turned on. Not himself. This was unacceptable.

Just like Crawford's words.

"Breakfast?" He touched Crawford's shoulder with one hand and tried to turn. He jutted up his chin.

Crawford was about to just walk out, after all this warm-up?

Crawford took note of how sunlight played on Schuldig's hair. The image that leaked out stole Schuldig's breath again. Quite the eyes Crawford had! Schuldig had never touched minds with anyone who ever *saw* so much. There was always a hundred details in every visual.

But Crawford did not stay with the delightful visuals. He grabbed Schuldig's wrist, squeezed it once, then dropped it and turned around on his heels.

"Breakfast," the white suit said and sauntered off.

Schuldig stared after him, a dozen or so filthy curses on his tongue. He turned around as soon as Crawford had closed the door after him. He stood in front of the window, his eyes fixed onto the street below. He saw Crawford emerge from the hotel and walk across the street.

Schuldig wasn't feeling like breakfast, not with this...

...this.

He slipped his hand under the towel. He imagined Crawford behind him, the way he had been a moment ago. He imagined that strong body push him against the window and teeth sliding on his neck. Biting. He imagined those strong hands pulling the towel away. He imagined...

…he imagined...

* * *

Everything was, in a word, ordinary.

The café was ordinary. The city was full of small cafés just like this one. There was nothing exceptional about the day, either. The year would be full of sunny, lazy mornings just like this one. He liked heat, but he wasn't used to this kind of climate, these temperatures yet. Still, you didn't crack jokes about the sun burning your skin off after you'd been forced to link minds with a man who had been burned alive.

Well, actually, you did. Jokes were the only thing you could make, if you wanted to stay sane through Rosenkreuz.

Schuldig giggled quietly. Sane. What a pitiful concept.

As pitiful as the concept of 'ordinary'. Schuldig thought that it was an insult how unexceptional this day and this café were. This was the stage of the most important game of his life? This?

He scanned the front entrance of the unexceptional, ordinary café. He spotted the right table through the large window. And the presence. There it was. All there. All composed and calm and perfect — perfectly perfect, and most certainly not ordinary. There was such a thing as too clean, and that was Crawford. Too clean. You knew that there was dirt under that shining armour. There had to be. No one was that clean.

Schuldig kept his eyes trained on the window as he skipped across the street over to the café. A bright white suit, hurt your eyes to look at it. A blank face and a blank mind, like the minds of any one of these dull nobodies whose thoughts bobbed about all around him. Sunglasses on the table. Crawford was holding the newspaper like he wanted to sink into it, and that's what his mind was doing. Sinking in it. Nothing but words, words, words ―

Eh. Crawford was reading sports pages. Golf. Of all things. He didn't think Crawford even liked golf. Did he?

Oh, but Schuldig didn't know. There was so much he didn't know. So much he wanted to find out.

With methodical precision, Schuldig assessed this thing in the white suit. There was no tension, no sharp anything, not in his mind and not in his physical façade. The white suit was lounging with the top buttons of the white shirt open. He was all blank, inside and out. Blank white.

White, white, white.

If Crawford meant to be inconspicuous, he was failing, but maybe that was the point.

Schuldig slammed the door open with a careless, wide gesture of a man who owns the world. He planned to own this day and this café, and his victory. He stepped inside, his jacket slung over one shoulder. He waved and flashed a smile at the waitress who turned to look. She smiled back, because he looked like he was on a good mood, and she needed customers on a good mood.

Lazily, Schuldig headed over to the white suit and sidled into the seat on the opposite side. He collapsed into a comfortable position, one foot on the bench, one elbow on the table, and one well-served wicked smile on his lips.

"The Flying Dutchman reporting for duty, sir."

The white suit didn't react to the idiotic greeting right away. The newspaper remained lifted to an optimal position to hide Crawford's face. Or to block Schuldig. Schuldig stared hard at the article about some famous nobody who had done something stupid, like famous nobodies are wont to do. He waited. He was wearing the yellow bandanna low on his forehead, with a few strands of hair scattered over his eyes. Every little detail was a perfect mess. He was particular about the type of impression he wanted to make. It had to be wrong in just the right ways.

Finally, the newspaper lowered by an inch. A familiar pair of eyes — keen, vibrant gold — came into view. "Dutchman? I was under the impression you were German."

Schuldig grinned. "I thought that would get your attention."

The golden eyes were completely dead of thoughts. Kitsch, Schuldig decided. That's what those eyes were. Not real gold. Nothing in that thing he was looking at was _real_.

"You like that," Crawford observed.

"Attention? Absolutely."

The kitsch remained visible from over the edge of the newspaper, but Crawford still wouldn't lower it to show his face fully. Schuldig was not a fortune teller, but he caught the distinct impression that a response wasn't anywhere in the near future. The white suit was waiting.

Schuldig was supposed to wonder what for and ask, but he didn't. He knew the rules of the game. Wait it out.

One smooth black eyebrow twitched. At last, the newspaper dropped to reveal those angular, calm features. Always calm. Crawford offered, "Can I buy you something?"

"Some coffee would be nice. But you knew that. You've already ordered it." Schuldig's eyes darted over to the approaching waitress. "And here she is."

The waitress was smiling as she placed a cup of coffee in front of Schuldig.

"Courtesy of your friend, sir," she said to Schuldig, but her eye lingered elsewhere.

Schuldig collected the coffee along with her smile and everything that came with it. It wasn't hard to figure out her thoughts. "Thank you, my dear," he said. "He really is courteous, isn't he?"

She glanced at him. The faint blush on her cheeks was the innocent reaction of a girl who had barely begun to understand what those blushes and those shy looks would lead into. Schuldig gave a slow, lazy smile and brushed his hand over hers. She was about to snatch it away with a gasp, but he was quicker. His long fingers held her wrist tight.

"In fact..." Schuldig's voice dropped to a magnetic whisper. "He's far too courteous to ask for your number so quickly, but he'd really like to have it."

Her eyes widened and she glanced at Crawford. The precognitive did not lower the paper and did not speak a word. But his honey brown eyes fixed her with a steady look. She blushed again. How old was she? Schuldig guessed just barely old enough to work here.

"Maybe you want to give him your number," Schuldig suggested.

Still blushing, she fumbled to do just that. Schuldig released her wrist. She offered the small piece of paper to Crawford, who took it with a polite nod. Schuldig thanked her and pressed a coin on her palm for her troubles ― she would have those tonight, trying to get her mind off the white suit.

He'd make sure of that.

She gave a delighted laugh, thanked him, and went on her way.

Crawford's lips made an attempt for a smile that could have been something like approval. "You scanned her when you came in. "

"Please. I scanned the entire café." Schuldig's fingers roamed over the edges of the cup. He nodded toward Crawford's wrists. "She noticed your cuff links."

Crawford said nothing.

"They look expensive. Shiny. She likes shiny, expensive things."

Crawford picked up his cup and took a sip. "So do you." And the golden eyes were there again. Watching. Intent. Purposeful. Schuldig knew where he was going with that.

Schuldig's lips pulled to a smirk. His eyes dropped and climbed. "Only when they come with a good package."

Crawford's put the cup down. "You have quite a mouth." It was an observation, nothing more.

It was taken as one. Nothing more.

"Thank you for noticing." Schuldig's fingers found one another somewhere above the cup. He leaned his elbows on the table. His chin rested on top of his interlaced fingers. He waited at the ready like a spider on cobweb. "So, shall we discuss the terms?"

"Terms?"

"The terms of this partnership. It's obvious you have expectations. I've got some of my own. We'll have to figure out some halfway point."

"Halfway point."

"Are you going to repeat the last words of everything I say? I hope you're planning on repeating my final last words." Schuldig leaned back and picked up his cup. "I'll make sure to say something rude. Because I know it'll be your fault."

"My fault?"

"If I die, it'll be because you'll have failed to prevent it."

A slight frown indicated that the too-clean blank-white too-perfect suit was not particularly amused.

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow. "You know you're going to have to put in some effort, if you expect this to work."

"This?"

"That's getting really old, Crawford." He took a sip of coffee.

A pause. Then, Crawford supported his elbows on the table and crossed his arms on top of one another. His eyes were fixed on Schuldig.

"Very well. Let's discuss 'this'. We are partners. But I'm your team leader. I expect you to respect that."

Schuldig set his cup down and matched Crawford's position. They were much closer now. The day was so hot that Schuldig hadn't thought he would notice Crawford's body heat until they were touching, but maybe the table wasn't that wide and maybe they were not that far apart.

Schuldig noticed.

"When I'm on duty, I owe you obedience," Schuldig said. "But off duty, I don't owe you anything. I expect _you_ to respect _that_."

Crawford knit his fingers and placed his hands on the table. Near the middle. "Those are acceptable terms."

Schuldig dropped his gaze to Crawford's hands. He thought about leaning back to put some distance between them and to prove a point. Then he looked up from under his brows.

He didn't lean back.

"By the way," Crawford said. "My updated orders came this morning."

"Mine too."

Crawford raised a brow. "Welcome to Team Schwarz, Schuldig."

Schuldig bowed his head slowly to a light dip that was only barely within regulations. A lazy smile crawled to pull up the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, Herr Crawford."

They held each other's eyes. Schuldig wasn't planning on being the first one to bridge the distance between them. And judging from the hard, keen gold across the table, neither was Crawford.

The stalemate dragged on. Schuldig's coffee got cold.

Game. Set. Go.


	2. The Sinner and the Prophet

**:: The Sinner and the Prophet ::**

"Sinner." Crawford chewed the word past the cigarette hanging off his lips. He cocked an eyebrow in the direction of the groggy lump consisting of human flesh and expensive wrinkled clothes slumped in the back seat of his car.

"Nnngh."

Crawford switched gears. The car remained quiet aside from the hum of the air conditioning and the muted roar of the engine. Crawford shook his head and pushed the black sunglasses up his nose with a sharp tap. The muscles near his jaw moved in a way that suggested displeasure, but his mood remained neutral enough not to wake the telepath.

Eventually, the lump shifted. Another few groggy groans later, the back seat of Crawford's car was occupied by a humanesque red-haired pile of limbs.

"You know, this is nothing like you said," muttered a disgruntled, irritable voice.

Crawford swept the cigarette off his lips and leaned over to the ashtray. He knocked the cigarette on the edge precisely two times; the exact number required to discard the extra ash. He didn't answer. He didn't have to, because he left the thought out there for the telepath like a document on the top of a pile of papers, here ― it wasn't a question, it was professional, polite interest, _Tell me more._

The brooding lean thing under the red mop lounged deep in the back seat, having hauled itself into a more or less upright position. Nothing surfaced to take Crawford's bait. Schuldig's eyes and his mind were lost in the city that was sweeping past outside. His clothes hung on his body every which way, his shirt unbuttoned, his jacket missing, his shoes dirty and his trousers dirtier. Everything about him was dishevelled and dirty, and his mind would probably have been the most dishevelled, the dirtiest thing, but his thoughts were not present, they were somewhere outside, wandering aimless and without a purpose.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," said Crawford sensibly. "But if you don't talk, it will make our relationship problematic, as I do not read minds." He glanced in the review mirror. "That's why I need you, remember?"

The distance in Schuldig's eyes vanished. His focus came back into the present, where Crawford liked it, though a part of Schuldig apparently hung in the past, which Crawford preferred to forget, because the telepath asked, "Since when have we had a relationship?"

"Since I asked if you wanted to be my partner, and you said yes."

"Which time?"

Crawford put the cigarette back in his mouth and took a drag. As the grey-white cloud burst out with Crawford's exhale, Schuldig's eyebrows wriggled like brilliant sunblazed worms, in displeasure and disappointment.

"And since when have you smoked?"

"Since when did you mind?"

"It's not like you."

"How would you know?"

Schuldig shook his head, and a few twigs fell off the dirty red mop. Schuldig looked down in surprise. A disorganised, distracted set of long slender fingers started to pick the dirt off the white trousers, they would be ruined but Schuldig didn't think that far ahead, because it was the future, and the future wasn't his business. That was all Crawford, only...

"This isn't like you said." Moody and reluctant. "You promised something different."

"Did I?"

"Ja, yeah. Fuck. Scheiße." He wasn't sure which language he wanted to speak. Certainly not the nonsense he had in his head these days. He missed the way people in Rosenkreuz whispered in foreign tongues beneath their shields, especially in the evenings before they drifted off to sleep. They had been much closer as well. Here, he found the space was sometimes too much.

Crawford swept the cigarette off his lips and waved it like a magician waves his wand. "This is the city I showed you." For once, a hint of impatience from the perfect peaceful precognitive.

Narrow slits of blue ice followed the glowing end of the cigarette in Crawford's hand. "You talked about sunlight."

Crawford slammed his hand on the wheel. The cigarette trembled in between two fingers. "There's plenty of sunlight here."

"But it's stifling," Schuldig growled. "Can't breathe in this sunlight. It's too hot, Crawford."

Crawford drummed the wheel. "Visions can't always accurately transmit weather conditions, but you knew it would be very warm. Everything's happened the way I said except where we chose to change it, what is the problem?"

"_You_ chose to change it."

"Is that the problem then?"

Schuldig kicked the seat in front of him, not the one Crawford was sitting on because Crawford would have only given him that Look. Schuldig kicked the empty seat again and again, until he guessed from the way the black suit shifted that soon there would be that Look anyway, and he chose not to let that future transpire. He scowled at the seat instead.

He had been sitting in that seat when Crawford had driven him to the hotel for the first time. When he had left that seat, he didn't remember having the feeling he was supposed to have, if Crawford's visions were accurate about clambering out of the car, standing next to a black suit, looking at a big building, hearing people. Seeing people. Lots of people. He had been excited, but he hadn't felt right, and he hadn't spoken the words.

_"Well, fuck, Crawford. You weren't fucking lying."_

Maybe the hotel was the same big building, maybe this was the city and maybe these were the people, and maybe, maybe these were the days and the hours and the minutes Crawford had predicted but it didn't feel the same. The blue eyes flicked to the black thing sitting in the driver's seat.

_You're not like you promised._

But he didn't let it slip. He was a fully trained telepath now, he knew what he was doing. He was a dangerous force of nature, and Crawford knew that. Crawford respected that.

Once upon a time, Schuldig had looked on tomorrow and figured that respect would be enough. But today, in this tomorrow that had finally arrived, it wasn't enough. Still, he didn't think he needed anything more from Crawford. He just needed something, and he kept looking, but he couldn't find it.

Maybe it was Schuldig who wasn't like he had promised. Maybe somewhere along the line, he had lost the future.

"The fuck do I know," he muttered in response to everything, every single fucking thing, to Crawford and to himself.

With a long exhale, the dangerous force of nature settled back in his seat and dropped his head in an uncomfortable angle only because it was amusing to listen to anybody who saw him through the car window and thought that his neck was snapped. He sampled some of the gasps before switching them off. He would keep the memories safe, he promised and locked them away somewhere into a place where they wouldn't trouble anybody.

"I won't file a report on this," Crawford said.

Schuldig's tongue moistened his upper lip like he could taste what Crawford was saying. It was supposed to feel like something, but it didn't. Nothing felt like anything, not even the voices outside, because they were once removed, too far away, distant cousins he should know better. Getting out of the car and going out there would be so easy, all he needed to do was to open the door and roll out into the street. They weren't driving fast, so he would survive the fall, unless another car ran him over or he hit his head, but then again, what would that feel like? Schuldig had listened to people dying, he knew what it was like, but would it be different if it was him and not them?

His hand was hanging on the handle of the door when Crawford pulled over.

"If you get out of the car, that will be it."

Schuldig blinked slowly at the words. He turned his head only just enough to see the slice of Crawford's figure from behind the back of the seat directly in front of him. The black suit was sitting very quiet, and from this angle the sunglasses didn't hide Crawford's eyes. Schuldig could see his profile. Crawford's eyes were closed. Schuldig listened to that Silence and he thought he heard the distance that came with the Future when Crawford was *seeing*, but he wasn't sure.

"Would you really kill me?" Schuldig asked.

"I wouldn't have to."

"You mean I'd get myself killed."

It wasn't a question; maybe it was fair that Crawford didn't seem to think it required an answer.

Schuldig's eye fell over every unwritten line of the Silence. Such fine shoulders, such fine hands. Schuldig remembered the shoulders and the hands and the way they had shielded him, once upon a time in the past. Once upon a time when it had been easier, when respect had been enough and when he had needed more and in needing more he had needed less. He had needed Crawford whereas now he only needed himself, but the problem was that it wasn't the way he had expected. He was forgetting his purpose, and he didn't even know why.

His eyelids fell and his chest got stuck in some reverse attempt to exhale ― he was forgetting how his lungs worked, forgetting what it was called. He doubled over, his fingers crawled deep in his hair, snagging on more twigs and many knots.

"You won't find any meaning."

"You fucker." Schuldig wheezed. "What?" He coughed, then choked, then remembered that it was called breathing and that he might have use for it a while longer.

"Life. Death. You won't find any meaning to them." Crawford put the cigarette on his lips. He was leaning his head back on the seat and letting his fingers trace the wheel. He bit through the words, "But you keep looking."

"Fuck you. Fortune cookie. Hack," Schuldig spat the curses and hit his fist on something. It was the handle. Click. The door swung open. Schuldig blinked at the sunlit pavement in surprise.

Crawford sat quietly in his seat.

Schuldig noticed the crack in the pavement and the trash somebody hadn't bothered picking up. He noticed how close to the pavement Crawford had parked the car. He noticed how close the people were walking. He noticed how they were looking at him and then speeding up to get past quicker, because it was none of their business, and they had their own business, and Schuldig got snagged by a little piece of that business here and another little piece there. He switched the arrangement of his feet like he might get out.

"It's your choice," said Crawford from the front seat. Tap-tap, he knocked the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray again.

The smoke meandered around the seats and wormed into Schuldig's lungs, a prickling smell like ants running on the inside of his chest. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"People keep trying to find the meaning from somewhere in between right and wrong. You like to listen to them," Crawford said. "You like to listen to people's sins. Makes you a sinner too if you listen well enough." He dragged on the cigarette. "Maybe you're hoping to find some meaning by accident one day."

Schuldig narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth for a contemptuous dismissal.

"Or maybe you just want to have some fun before you die." Crawford shrugged. "I don't really care which is the case. But if you leave this car now, you will never make it back, and I will be one team member short. I won't be happy about that, but it's your choice."

Schuldig closed his mouth. He pulled his head back from where it was hanging halfway through the doorway, and the physical reproduction of the metaphorical action helped to pull his metaphorical head back to where it belonged, on the inside of his physical head. He turned to the black suit. Crawford's eyes were closed, he was so calm, except for those muscles near the jaws where displeasure tightened his expression.

"You'd let me go." Schuldig's mouth made an unhappy squiggle all over the lower half of his face.

"It has to be your choice."

"But you came to fetch me from the park today."

"Today, I knew where you were."

"You're saying you won't always know where I am?"

Crawford leaned forward and took his sunglasses off, then turned to look at Schuldig. Schuldig couldn't associate the word "sad" to any expression on that face, but this was the closest equivalent.

"I'm saying it has to be your choice," said Crawford, and he emphasised his words in ways that were meant to end the conversation.

Silence carried them through several minutes worth of wasted time, though Schuldig didn't realise it was wasted until the minutes were gone. Crawford had asked him many times, _Will you be my partner?_ because he needed Schuldig to choose. Crawford wouldn't force him to stay. He would be there, like he had been at the park to pick him up, but whether Schuldig went or stayed was not up to Crawford. It was as it had always been, and the answers Schuldig kept demanding were not needed, which rendered this exchange superfluous. He wondered if maybe Crawford knew how useless those minutes had been, and whether that was the true cause for the almost-sadness he had detected.

Crawford scanned his body. "You'll need to change," he said, and for a second Schuldig misunderstood him, but then Crawford went on: "And you'll have to take a shower. We have about one hour, if you're not ready by then, I'll have to go alone."

Schuldig knew that Crawford meant to ask, _Are we done?_ because, _We have business to attend to._ He had nothing more to say.

Schuldig did.

"You're not looking for anything," Schuldig went backwards in time before the wasted minutes. "Life, death. Sin. You don't think there's any point. You like it the way it is. No meaning."

"Mm." Crawford put the sunglasses back in place. "Maybe after."

"After?"

Crawford waved his burning wand again and tendrils of smoke danced. "After everything. When there's nothing more to see." He cocked an expectant eyebrow. "Close the door."

Schuldig didn't, not yet. The answer was surprising and the black suit could wait a little. He listened to the contents of the suit but couldn't decide what it was he heard. He supported one hand to the car seat in front of him and leaned in closer to the magician.

"How far ahead have you seen?"

Instead of giving him a Look because he hadn't closed the door yet, Crawford treated him to a rare smile. He reached over and poked the cigarette in between Schuldig's lips.

"Far enough," he said.

Impatiently, Schuldig snatched the cigarette off his lips and opened his mouth to demand more answers. But the face of patience stopped him, because it was suddenly so different. Where had the tense lines disappeared? Into the future? Into _far enough_ ― whatever that meant?

"Close the door, Schuldig." It was a command. He wanted Schuldig to do what he said.

But it was Schuldig's choice.

Many thoughts cycled through Schuldig's mind. About how Crawford would let him go if he wanted it, and how Crawford was there to pick him up at the park, and how Crawford didn't demand an explanation for his disappearance, and how it was a comfortable, familiar choice to do what Crawford wanted. He decided that disobedience was an inconvenience in a working relationship.

He collapsed into the back seat and grabbed the handle of the car door. Click. Schuldig's choice was made. Expectant blue eyes waited to see where Crawford's future would take them next.

Crawford turned back to the wheel and started the engine. His fine hands held onto the wheel nice and firm, and Schuldig watched his fine shoulders shifting, and he wondered for how long.

"For as long as I can see, Schuldig," Crawford said from over his shoulder.

Schuldig flicked the cigarette up and down in between his fingers. "I thought you didn't read minds."

"Hmm," Crawford mused, "what's the one question people would ask, if they got to know one thing about their future?"

An invisible magnet pulled Schuldig's gaze to the window. To the people Crawford was talking about. He didn't have to think about his answer. "They'd ask about death. They'd want to know when it all ends."

"You've never asked me."

"Mm. It's not relevant."

"Because you don't want to know about death," Crawford said. "But you still want to know about the end. Right now, you want to know how long you can count on me." He switched gears but his firm hand kept the wheel steady. He kept them on course.

The tension on Schuldig's face disappeared like a string let loose. He plastered his palm on the window. He peered at the shifting shapes outside from between his fanned-out fingers, trying to catch a particular cloud in between his fingertips. He could see the sky if he tilted his head just right.

"For as long as you can see?" he asked, to check and confirm that he had got it right.

"Mm."

One corner of Schuldig's mouth twitched, trying to curve up for a lopsided smile, but the curled upper lip turned the smile into a sneer. "And that's far enough?"

"Correct."

"You think that's enough for me, soothsayer?"

"I think it's your choice, sinner."

Schuldig started to laugh. He kept laughing the entire rest of the drive. Still chortling quietly, he looked out the window when the car slowed down. Crawford parked the car in front of a big building. Schuldig plastered both hands on the glass and stared. His laughter died and his smile faded.

"That's not our hotel," Schuldig observed.

"No," Crawford agreed.

"Didn't you say I needed to change and take a shower?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I've brought our luggage. It was lucky you hadn't unpacked yet."

Schuldig kept staring at the building. "That's not even a hotel, Crawford."

"How observant. We'll spend a while in this city. I thought it would be appropriate to buy a place. I closed the deal last night while you were out."

"You bought us a place."

"I hope you'll like it."

Schuldig shook his head. "You wouldn't have bought it unless you knew in advance how I'd feel about it." He turned to look at Crawford. "Will I like it?"

Crawford tilted his head to the side and pulled his sunglasses down, just enough to reveal his eyes. A mischievous pair of gold pieces glimmered at him from under black eyebrows.

"Why spoil the surprise for you?" Chuckling, Crawford pushed the sunglasses back in place, turned and opened the door.

Schuldig watched him get out of the car, then he glanced at the window. He wasted a few more seconds on trying to think past the murmurs in his head. He put the cigarette in between his teeth and chewed on the filter. It had an odd taste. He took a slow, careful drag. He had touched minds with people who smoked, but it was different when the filth was in his own mouth. Different for his lungs for sure. He started to cough. He grabbed the cigarette and crushed it in his fist and tossed it on the floor of Crawford's fine, tidy car.

Then he imagined Crawford scrambling on his hands and knees rummaging around in between the seats with a vacuum cleaner. He started to laugh softly. The quiet chuckle built into a giggle, picked up speed from someone who was on a good mood, and eventually bubbled up into a shoulder-shaking chortle.

There was a knock on the glass. A dark shadow hovered outside, waiting.

Schuldig wheezed and stopped laughing. He looked at the hand he was holding against the window. Sunlight painted his skin. He was getting tanned.

He was changing. Crawford was different, too, and maybe they'd still change more together. Maybe tomorrow was an ever-moving flicker of light, and maybe Schuldig didn't have to waste time thinking about it, because he had Crawford. He could leave the future to the seer.

Schuldig only needed to figure out who and what and where he was now, and maybe he would reinvent himself every day. And maybe he'd like it.

"I'll find my meaning, prophet," he muttered. His hand swept down.

Click.

Schuldig turned the handle and kicked open the door. Warmth flooded into his lap. He dropped his gaze on the pavement. He listened. Crawford was waiting to show him their new place. The future was waiting for him to make his choices.

He stepped out of the car. His foot landed on the pavement ― right next to a pair of sleek black shoes and a black trouser leg. But he didn't pay any attention to the shoes, the trousers, the black suit next to him. He straightened his back and pushed the car door shut with an easy flick of one hand. He raised his face up toward the sky, toward the sunlight.

He was finally feeling it.

This was it. This was the feeling, this, this something swelling inside him. It brought back the lost future.

"Well, fuck, Crawford," he murmured. "You weren't fucking lying."

A hand appeared on his shoulder to give it a brief but tight squeeze. The telepath lowered his gaze. There was a big building in front of him. There were people. People everywhere.

"Come, then, partner..." The voice was all honey and cream. It was really more of a caress in his ears than a mere whisper.

He started to grin.

Crawford patted his shoulder and walked past him. Schuldig followed at an easy, relaxed pace, taking his time delighting in every detail. He decided that he liked the stairs and the lift, and he decided that he liked the floors, and he liked the chink of the keys as Crawford opened the door.

Then the door swung open. Schuldig took one look at the neat white surfaces and straight lines and sharp angles and dropped his grin and decided, emphatically, "I hate it."

Crawford scratched his chin. "Give it time," he mused.


	3. Never Lost Never Found

**Author's Notes:** This fic occurs during the same mission as the previous two instalments.

**Summary: **Crawford and Schuldig have some unfinished business from Rosenkreuz. Now that they are living together and working on their first mission ― and on their budding partnership ― maybe it's finally time to sort it out. Or maybe it's not.

* * *

**:: Never Lost Never Found ::  
**

They had been playing since day one. Along the way, the rules had changed a few times around, as had the game board, but the players were still the same, and so was the basic premise.

On paper, the arrangement looked simple enough. Schuldig was fresh from Rosenkreuz but with recommendations that could have landed him into one of the best teams in Eszett. Instead, he had ended up here, with an upstart precognitive who had just "happened" to be conveniently available to take charge when Schuldig's would-be first team had been annihilated to the last man. As a reward for work well done, they had promoted Crawford and given him a one-man team ― Schuldig.

Schuldig didn't think that Crawford's motivations were really that hard to understand. Crawford wanted Schuldig because he wanted to build a powerful team, and he wanted a powerful team because he wanted power, and he wanted power for the same reasons everybody else did ― power makes the world go around. With enough influence and enough connections, Crawford could achieve whatever position he wanted. He could be wealthy and comfortable, and maybe one day he would retire to a luxurious villa somewhere by the seaside.

But that was where it got complicated. Schuldig had no problem with the idea of helping Crawford to get his villa and his handsome retirement plan, but he had a few plans of his own, and he wasn't always sure that his plans were aligned with Crawford's. Crawford had talked him into this partnership by suggesting cooperation for mutual benefit, and Schuldig was fine with that, but Crawford liked to give orders, and though he called it choice, at the end of the day Schuldig didn't think that the perfect precog's plans ever left room for choice.

It had quickly become clear that really, Brad Crawford was a one man show and that raised all kinds of questions. They wanted to work together, yes ― but which one wanted it more, and why? Schuldig was playing to find out. Crawford's game plan was undoubtedly more complicated, as usual.

But each for their own reasons, they were playing.

The game advanced to a new level one afternoon while they were going through Crawford's mission report. Schuldig had listened to Crawford's presentation of several sheets worth of readings and results from samples collected from various locations around the city, apparently suggesting some paranormal activity hotspots, but not even the brilliant precognitive could conjure a pattern from the jumbled mess of figures and graphs. Crawford had discovered nothing of value so far, he had had no dreams of importance or he wasn't sharing, and Schuldig had found even less ― the mission seemed to be stuck, and Schuldig's thoughts strayed.

Their life had eased into a routine within the first week of living together. It had happened almost too quickly, as though they had never been apart. They hadn't even discussed the practicalities. Between a telepath and a precognitive, talking was often unnecessary, but it was still surprising how easily they learned one another's idiosyncrasies. Schuldig knew when Crawford was in his office, or in the bathroom. Crawford predicted when Schuldig would be here, or there, or anywhere. It was easy to stay out of each other's way. They navigated their respective lives with little contact aside from the occasional "good night" in the evening and "hullo, I didn't hear you come in last night" in the morning.

But when they were doing business, like this, today, here in Crawford's office, Schuldig kept staring at Crawford's face and not his figures ― or at least not the ones flashing on the laptop display ― and he wondered if this was how it was supposed to be between them, and why.

"I could be a team leader, you know," he said in the middle of Crawford's sentence.

The precognitive closed his mouth. Something about electromagnetic interference, Schuldig had been listening but he had heard this so many times, Crawford talked about numbers every day, and they weren't getting anywhere, and he got to wondering why Crawford got to choose how often they sat down together like this, anyhow.

"Yes," said Crawford with the tone of a man who isn't really feeling like stopping by the roadside to let his kids out of the car to throw up, but on the other hand, he isn't precisely interested in scrubbing vomit off his brand new seats, either.

Schuldig cocked a surprised eyebrow not so much at the tone as at the answer itself. He hadn't expected Crawford to agree, because, well, this was Crawford, and though Crawford had always talked to him about a team, the precog had assumed the leader's position ever since the very beginning. Crawford used words like partners and choice, but no sooner had he asked if Schuldig wanted to work with him than he already expected him to do as he was told.

"It's in your file," Crawford elaborated.

Not exactly the impressed reaction Schuldig might have hoped, and a little annoying to boot.

"Most telepaths never qualify," he reminded Crawford, because it meant something. The fact that he was considered to have the potential to lead a team one day was a big deal, and Crawford should acknowledge that.

"Most telepaths don't want it," commented Crawford with a flat tone.

Schuldig's other eyebrow joined the first in the surprised arch, then both dived to formulate a displeased frown. "You think so?"

"It takes a lot of focus."

Schuldig leaned his elbow on the table and kept a keen eye on Crawford. "Being a team leader?" His tone suggested that Crawford might like to reconsider his statement.

But Crawford shook his head and turned a steady, serious eye on Schuldig. "Staying sane when you're telepathic."

Schuldig scanned Crawford's face, still not convinced that he had not just been insulted. "It takes a lot of focus from a precognitive, too."

"It's different." Crawford adjusted the glasses on his nose. "A telepath needs to stay focused to remember who he is. A precognitive needs to stay focused to remember where he is and what he is supposed to be doing. You might say team leading goes with the territory."

Schuldig's upper lip curled to a sneer. "You think you're doing me a favour."

The honey-brown evaluated the blue for a long minute before Crawford replied. "It's more work for a telepath."

"Maybe, but I'd be better at it than you," Schuldig shot back.

"The instructor who signed that recommendation form seemed to think so." Crawford held Schuldig's eyes. He didn't have to name that particular instructor. They both knew whose signature was on that paper. The head supervisor of Rosenkreuz had favoured Schuldig.

This was the first time ― _ever_ ― Crawford seemed to be suggesting that perhaps the favouritism had not been entirely justified.

Schuldig's eyes narrowed to thin slits. "You disagree," he concluded.

"I didn't say that."

Schuldig's fingers crawled to a fist on the table surface. "But you do have an opinion."

Crawford turned back to the laptop and tapped a few keys to switch to a different screen, with different numbers. His voice remained calm. "I think that the council is right saying that you need a few years on the field before you're qualified to lead a team."

"Uh-huh." Schuldig's eyes gleamed dangerously from under the shock of red hair. "You think I'm immature and undisciplined."

Tap, tap, tap. Crawford did not look away from the laptop. "I didn't say that."

Schuldig's fist slammed on the table. "But you do have an opinion!" he hissed.

Crawford's fingers froze on the keyboard. He stared at the screen, sitting as composed as always, but the way his jaws moved betrayed the irritation Schuldig sensed lingering like a bad smell. Schuldig jutted his chin up. He was not about to apologise for his outburst.

Crawford just sat there in his fucking fine white suit like the cold slab of stone that he was. A fucking statue. He wasn't about to engage in an argument.

A silence dragged on, until Schuldig decided that it was a stand-off. He took to his feet slowly like a lazy cat getting up off a warm cosy seat; reluctant yet determined ― just as a cat would never abandon comfort had he not chosen to do so, Schuldig would never leave an argument had he not decided that he was done. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed both the topic and Crawford. He started to walk towards the door.

"We aren't finished," Crawford's steady voice informed him. He still didn't look up from the screen.

"No," Schuldig agreed coolly. "We aren't."

With that, he walked out and closed the door firmly behind him. Crawford sat in his chair, staring at the laptop, only his fingers moving on the keys, flicking through a screen after screen of numbers in complete silence. A precognitive would know the future. Schuldig would calm down if only to avoid fracturing their professional relationship, and things would go back to normal. They would not talk about the incident. They weren't finished with each other, and that was a good thing.

Perhaps it could also be a bad thing. The game had just become a matter of principle.

* * *

They didn't exactly get along; neither were they fighting. They were simply leading their separate lives irrespective of each other. Things were uncomfortable at worst and a little too easy at best.

It helped that they had plenty of space. There was a living room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, and an office for Crawford. The place Crawford had bought met their different requirements. It was located close to everything Schuldig needed for his entertainment, and seemed to be equipped to accommodate Crawford, who spent most of his free time indoors. They didn't have to get in each other's way, and they usually didn't. When Crawford was home, he occupied his desk, or sat with a book in an armchair in one corner of the living room.

Schuldig spent most of his time moving. Moving around. Moving in. Mentally, he was still mostly moving out. In and out, at the same time — out of the past, into the future. He was going in circles.

Much like their game. Since they weren't fighting they must have been getting along, but things were a little too easy in an uncomfortable way, and they kept running in circles. Perhaps neither really knew where they were headed; or if Crawford knew, like he always did, he didn't let on.

It was only one of the numerous things that grated on Schuldig's nerves. Another thing was the way Crawford's eye sometimes lingered. Schuldig wasn't sure about what that meant. It was an open invitation, but was it just another bait, another attempt to bring a stubborn telepath to heel? Schuldig wasn't sure about how to react. Yes, perhaps, just perhaps, Schuldig was still interested, perhaps he was curious about how Crawford would taste now, here, where no eyes would be watching, no ears would be listening, no one would interfere.

But what was Crawford's angle? If Crawford actually felt something, he was keeping it to himself, keeping his distance ― biding his time, perhaps, but for what?

If Crawford was waiting for something, Schuldig decided to let him wait. After how Crawford had offended his professional pride, he had absolutely no intention to even consider checking whether old salt might still taste sweet. He could find other ways to pass his time.

Crawford seemed to be incredibly, infuriatingly fine with that.

And so they kept going in circles.

Most of it was subconscious. Perhaps. Schuldig was never sure. Sometimes they passed one another by on their way in or out of a room, and their bodies were a little too close. Schuldig didn't think it was his doing, but if it was Crawford, he was making a good show of making it look accidental. There was always one hand too close to one body; whose hand and whose body, Schuldig sometimes forgot. It was, in the end, four hands and two bodies — too far, yet too close, circling one another, waiting each other out.

Schuldig always moved too much. Crawford never moved enough.

One afternoon, Schuldig stopped moving. He didn't precisely plan it out. He walked into the living room, where Crawford was sitting in his armchair. The golden eyes climbed up from the book. Climbed up Schuldig's body.

That was when Schuldig stopped. He whirled on his heels. Their eyes met, aligned their thoughts on some subliminal level that was decipherable only to a telepath who _could tell_, and suddenly it was no longer clear who had initiated the contact.

Several seconds of silence connected them, then the depth of the silence became too much for the telepath who was used to ― maybe preferred ― excessive noise.

"What are we waiting for?" As soon as the words had left his lips, Schuldig's fingers clenched near his thigh, convulsing like something at the pit of his stomach, because he had broken some boundary, he had shattered some pattern, he was shaking them out of shape by disturbing Crawford's moment of private reverie.

"Waiting?" Crawford did not close the book, but he was held in the exchange.

Schuldig opened his mouth. He hovered in between two directions and wondered what it would have been like to be precognitive and know the result of each step he might take. He hesitated, then decided that his original direction wasn't worth the risk, and he changed his mind, changed his course, redirected them.

"It was supposed to be urgent to get a telepath here," Schuldig said. "But nothing's happening. What are we waiting for?" He frowned. "Did we already botch it?"

"Do you think I wouldn't tell you if we failed?"

Schuldig's palm slammed into his own thigh. Whap!

"Quit screwing with me, Crawford. Maybe you gave me a little time to adjust, I can understand that ― though it wasn't necessary, I assure you." He narrowed his eyes. "But half the time I don't even know what I'm supposed to be hearing when you tell me to listen."

"You have the mission specifications."

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "Oh right. Just fuck my ass, Crawford. You keep taking me to restaurants and coffee shops because you think that I can catch a ghost. Maybe hear some hint of its whereabouts. But you know what, _Herr_ Crawford, I'm not hearing anything. You should give me specific people to work with." Schuldig cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe you just like taking me out to eat?"

Crawford's face didn't even twitch at the insults. "We went through this. I can't point you to any names." Crawford's fingers drummed the book in his lap. "We're tracking a shadow. You'll know what you're looking for when you find it."

"So you keep saying."

"You have all the information Eszett could provide."

"Some telepath's report about a strange presence. It sounded more like a religious experience. I don't understand why Eszett considered it so important. It's barely worth investigating!" Schuldig scoffed. "The report didn't even specify whether it's a child or an adult, and that's basic telepathy."

"You have some leads," Crawford said coolly.

"But I still don't see how you expect me to find anything when I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for or why," Schuldig snapped. "I might have passed it a dozen times and not realised. Telling me to listen for anything out of the ordinary is a little hard if I don't know what constitutes as 'ordinary'. Huh? You're not just screwing with me, are you?" He started to walk closer slowly, his eyes never moving from Crawford's face. "Maybe you're just biding your time before pulling the name out of your sleeve."

Crawford watched him approaching until he was but two steps away. Then the precognitive whipped the book closed, and the next second he was on his feet, just in time to meet Schuldig face to face, his tall imposing figure leaning forward.

"I shouldn't have to prove to you that this is real. Have you been too caught up in your extra-curricular activities to notice it?"

"Notice what?"

Crawford shook his head. "You would know what I mean had you been paying attention on the job at all."

"Paying attention? Fuck you, Crawford! Don't you dare imply I'm not taking my work seriously," Schuldig hissed. "Fuck you!"

"Then tell me you've noticed it," Crawford prompted.

"Fuck you!"

Crawford slammed the book on the table. Schuldig jumped. The sound was so surprising, so un-Crawfordian. With wide eyes, he watched Crawford's face doing something he didn't remember seeing it do since Rosenkreuz.

"You're quite possibly the most powerful telepath on the field," Crawford said slowly, with a voice that was so exaggerated in its calmness that it reeked of anger. "And you're telling me you don't notice all the sleepwalkers?"

Schuldig frowned. It was Crawford's obvious upset that finally made him stop and think. He took several minutes, during which Crawford patiently waited, his eyes intent and demanding.

At length, Schuldig conceded, "You mean the people I've been instructed to follow." He shook his head. "It's just a bunch of insomniacs, Crawford."

"It's more than that." Crawford frowned. "Maybe you'd have already found what we're looking for, had you spent less time dancing and more time meditating."

Schuldig was getting angry. "Fuck you, Crawford! You want to spend all your nights standing on your head trying to be one with the universe, fine, but I'll rather taste what life is like! I've done everything you've told me to do, and more, and I've searched this city a hundred times, and it's not my fault if it's just not there! I've earned my free time, and I'll do what I damn well please with it!"

"You only have free time when and if I decide that the mission can afford it," Crawford reminded him.

"Oh, right. You're threatening to cancel my free time, or you want me to be grateful that you're letting me not work around the clock?"

"You know this is more than a full-time job, Schuldig."

"Well, I didn't sign up for this! None of this!"

Crawford's mouth snapped shut. Schuldig's heated, hasty words were processed behind a pair of dead, unblinking eyes, but the way the precognitive flexed his fingers suggested everything Schuldig couldn't hear him thinking. Schuldig had just dropped much more on the table than a confession of his less than enthusiastic loyalty to Eszett. He certainly meant, _I didn't choose this_, but he might have also meant, _I didn't choose you._

Schuldig refused to specify. Crawford refused to ask. The longer the silence stretched on, the more distance Schuldig sensed between them. The patterns that bound them together were breaking, the fabric they had woven together since Rosenkreuz was tearing at the seams ― the foundation of their relationship, their professional partnership, was put to question.

Schuldig no longer knew where this exchange was going, or where he wanted it to go. Nor did he want to stand here trying to figure it out. He swept around on his heels and started to walk towards the door.

Crawford watched him go for several footsteps. Then, "Schuldig." His tone was reconciliatory, but firm. He wasn't asking.

Schuldig felt like disobeying the suggested command. Crawford waited. Schuldig stomped all the way across the room, but some part of him refused to disappear through the door before hearing how Crawford planned to fix the situation. Out of sheer curiosity ― yes, it was curiosity, he decided ― Schuldig stopped. He didn't turn around, but he turned his head and gave the vague impression of _I'm listening_.

"Be back by supper time," Crawford said. "We're going out to eat, and then to a bar."

Schuldig imagined the rest of the conversation like a film in his head. _For work?_ he could have asked. _Of course,_ Crawford would have answered.

With a slight shake of the head, Schuldig chose to skip right to the end credits.

"I'll be there."

He slipped out and closed the door after him. Click. Schuldig was gone.

Crawford turned to look at the window. His eye fell and lingered on the floral design wriggling up and down the curtains. The pattern was the only thing in the room that was not all straight lines and sharp angles. Crawford's eyes tracked the shape of one squiggle, then his gaze fell. He turned back to his chair, picked up the book, sat down, and continued to read.

* * *

Schuldig sat in the corner table, which was the best place in the bar for staying unnoticed. He could always bend any mind that paid too much attention to him, but he didn't want to distribute his attention between multiple tasks for the moment. He held the beer glass in between his palms, staring at and right past the rich gold substance.

What Crawford had said haunted him. He hadn't even really meant to talk about the mission when he had walked into the room, but once it had happened, everything had careened out of control so fast, Schuldig was left wondering why they had argued, and whether he was still supposed to be angry. Crawford made some valid points ― Eszett had expectations, and Crawford would have to enforce their rules. The team leader was expected to cancel his team's free time if the mission required it, and Crawford seemed to believe in his business.

Yet there were better ways of bringing up the rules, and you never knew with Crawford. Schuldig didn't want to think that he was being played, but it wasn't the same between them, and Schuldig knew how ruthless Crawford could be. The precog would sell anything to achieve his goals. Schuldig was an important asset, but was he irreplaceable? Crawford seemed to believe so, considering how much time and effort the precog had expended on getting Schuldig into his team, but in the end maybe all that was just to win a team, not necessarily Schuldig?

And what if Schuldig proved to be not quite what Crawford had expected? Schuldig was thinking about the look in the hard gold eyes, and it made him angry to think that it might have been disappointment. Crawford had absolutely no business being disappointed, especially since Schuldig was the one who had a reason to feel dissatisfied. Crawford was distant and cold and most assuredly not the partner Schuldig had expected. While that might have been just Crawford's usual precognitive thing, what if it was something else?

What if?

All the options left him in a strange place somewhere in between trust and mistrust, where the past haunted him while the future simply wasn't there. Everything Crawford had ever shown him had happened. Maybe this was it? Crawford kept talking about "long enough" and "far enough" and "for as long as I can see", but those statements meant nothing when they were not dressed with specific dates and places. Schuldig wanted to know when and where, and most importantly, why.

Questions, questions. Schuldig shook his head at the beer glass. "Something you don't want to tell me, huh?" he muttered. "That why you don't tell me more?"

The rich gold surface stared back unblinking from behind the glass shield. Schuldig squinted, then chuckled at the metaphor. Crawford's eyes were like a beer jug. Glass protecting pools of honey-brown. Chortling, he took another sip off Crawford's eyes, then closed his own and leaned back in his seat. He was tired of thinking for himself. He would just keep running around in circles and still end up with more questions and less answers.

Schuldig's focus drifted out of his mind and into the people around him. Crawford had taken him here before during their tiresome search for clues. Schuldig found the same numb, dumb, muted chatter of people wanting this, that, there, away, away, away, always wanting to be something and somewhere else, restless and wicked, thinking about each other but ultimately only concerned with themselves.

With a disgusted sneer, Schuldig listened to the petty little people with their petty little problems. What did Crawford think he could achieve here, investigating them?

Schuldig found a couple of Crawford's "sleepwalkers". They were absent, distracted, *not quite there*, the way a mind is when it's not getting enough rest. Insomniacs, and yes, Schuldig admitted that there were abnormally many, and yes, he had discovered that they were located in a particular area of the city ― all these facts were points he had to yield, but what did it all mean? Schuldig couldn't find any particular reason why they weren't sleeping well. Schuldig had repeated his predecessor's steps and followed and listened to a few of them through the night, and come up dry. What dreams these people had were nothing special, and what thoughts they had were nothing special. No clues, no leads, nothing.

Schuldig was one of the best telepaths to ever leave Rosenkreuz. His pride insisted that he was finding nothing, because there was nothing to find.

What were they expecting? Certainly the epidemic insomnia suggested the possibility of some supernatural activity, but why did Eszett believe that it was related to this strange presence one of their telepaths had reported?

While tormenting himself with these questions, Schuldig turned his mental eye away from the people around him, away from the frustrating, blank-tired minds of the insomniacs. He floated out the window, disappearing like a wisp of smoke into the shadows. He drifted with the busy people on the pavement and the less busy people in their beds, and all the people in between. His eyes closed, he sat very still, only barely aware of his physical body as he reached out farther and farther into the whispers.

On that voyage into the familiar unknown, he had a passing encounter with something. It wasn't exactly anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it was a little bit familiar, in that way a face you think you remember is familiar though you can't place it.

_== mmm mmm mmm ==_

There was no sound to it, there were no words. It went on and on like a background noise you were so used to that it no longer disturbed you, and as soon as he had noticed it, he started to become numb to it. Automatically, he started to think it didn't matter, he was ready to move on, and then it slipped away.

Blip.

Wait a minute.

He blinked rapidly. A spasm went through him as he returned to full consciousness. Schuldig licked his lips, his eyes scanning the beer glass on the table furiously. The memory was stubbornly trying to vanish, slip away, disappear like the last remnants of water washed down the drain. Perhaps it had disappeared like that many, many times. But today was different. Crawford had challenged Schuldig's professionalism and his abilities. Today, he was too angry, too alert. He clung onto the memory, sank his teeth in it like a dog digs in to a juicy bone.

What the hell was this? Someone meditating, was his first instinct, but the more he analysed what he had sensed, the more convinced he became that he hadn't touched a single conscious mind. Perhaps several? It made him think of the buzz of telepaths when you put enough of them together, or the static of clairvoyants, but it wasn't quite either.

It was a strange presence, something odd and unusual and...

"Shit," Schuldig whispered.

He had just found his _out of the ordinary_.

"Shit!" he hissed again and threw the glass from his hands. Crash! It shattered, and he rushed up onto his feet. He didn't bother wiping any minds before sweeping past the upset waitress who really wanted to tell him that this sort of thing wasn't appropriate here. He stormed right out of the bar, and into the street.

"You were right, you bastard," he muttered moodily.

It was an unhappy conclusion.

He glowered at the first suit that crossed his path, taking it for a representative of the one waiting for him to report back by supper time. The suit happened to be standing on display behind glass in a shop window, and Schuldig felt it was absolutely necessary to stop in front of it to tell it like it was.

"Screw you," he spat. "Besides, you weren't right. You thought I'd catch something from somebody but it was never there. It's not in anybody's head and I didn't need to go anywhere to find it. It kept slipping from me, because you know what, Crawford, it doesn't want to be found. It's masking itself and it's doing it well."

He glowered at the mute grey suit.

"And stop looking so smug," he added. "I could've figured it out without you."

But the truth was that if he hadn't been so pissed off, it probably would have slipped from him. Which only made him wonder if Crawford had irritated him on purpose.

"If you did, you're one dumb bastard," he snapped. "Because if you told me what to look for, this would've all been done by now."

With that, he turned his back on the grey suit and continued walking. He didn't have an exact destination in mind. His feet kept working while his mind busily arranged itself. He needed to catch that *thing*, whatever it was, and locate it. He could go back to the flat, but all he really needed was somewhere quiet, and he wasn't feeling like going back to Crawford and have an _I told you so_ in his face all evening.

So Schuldig headed to the nearest hotel, led the receptionist into believing that he had a reservation, made sure she would not worry about the bill right now, ah, these simple minds were so easy. He was soon standing in a little room with a locked door and plenty of privacy. He dropped the jacket off his shoulders and crawled onto the bed. He pulled his gun out of the holster concealed in his trousers behind his back, then rolled over on his back and flopped the gun lazily on his stomach. With one hand holding the gun, he stared up into the ceiling and listened.

He would need to listen all through the city to find this thing, but at least now he knew what he was trying to find. He didn't close his eyes. Away, away, away he went, past the people on the pavement and the people in their beds, and the people everywhere in between. He looked and he looked and he listened.

He kept catching nothing.

He had completed numerous exercises like this. Meditation upon command, trying to find a phantom, a ghost, a spectre, a hallucination, a dream; maybe a nightmare. He kept turning every which way whenever he heard an indistinct murmur that might have, might, might have been it ― but it never was. He started to get frustrated. He poked at some of the thoughts he caught in order to scatter them, he did it out of sheer spite, just _because_. Because he was looking for something specific and these thoughts weren't it.

He went around in circles for an hour before giving up and drifting back into his body. He flexed his fingers and frowned at the ceiling. He knew what he needed to find. It shouldn't be this hard to locate it again.

Then it occurred to him that perhaps knowing what he was looking for was the problem. He considered the circumstances of his discovery. Perhaps his aligned focus and all his _trying_ was working against him. This thing was sentient, possibly telepathic. Perhaps it sensed him coming now that he was consciously looking?

Hmm.

Schuldig got up out of the bed and walked over to the telephone, picked up the receiver and contacted room service. He ordered a bottle of wine into his room. An annoying cheerful voice promised that one would be brought right up.

Schuldig spent the waiting time by taking a look around the room. It was a nice place, not unlike the hotel Crawford had taken him on their first day together. Schuldig's eye clung onto the bed. Sometimes, at night, back at Rosenkreuz, he had wondered what it would be like, their first night together. He had expected a hotel and he had expected a bed.

He had not expected a cold empty room, which was what he had received. He knew that he shouldn't have been surprised. At Rosenkreuz, he had shared one of Crawford's visions about their first day together. The vision had indicated that the precog would have business to attend to, and that Schuldig would spend his first night alone. Yet somehow, when Crawford had chosen to change things, maybe a part of him had wondered if...

Schuldig shook his head. Stupid.

He walked across the room to the window and slid his fingers down the blades of the closed shutters. He didn't want to think about Crawford. He clung onto the hard, unyielding grip of the gun in his hand. It was his first weapon, given to him during his graduation ceremony. He didn't normally give it a great deal of thought, but he needed these Other Thoughts to distract him.

He had mixed feelings about the gun. He wanted to get a new one, one he had chosen, as a symbol of his freedom, but something kept him hanging onto this one. This was his first gun, and better yet, it was his medal of honour, his trophy, his token for surviving Rosenkreuz and for becoming the best telepath that ever left that accursed facility.

A knock on the door finally indicated that the wine was here. Schuldig slipped the gun back into the holster behind his back, then walked over to the door. He opened it, took the bottle and the glass and left the boy with the impression that he had not only paid but indeed given a handsome tip ― the kid would swear he had delivered the money, but his boss would think he was trying to steal from him, which would generate a delicious little drama Schuldig could come back to check up on later. With a wicked smirk, Schuldig slammed the door shut in the boy's face.

Schuldig checked that the door was locked and returned to the bed. He poured himself a glass and settled on his stomach. Hugging the pillow under his chest, he started to drink. With every sip, the alcohol did its trick with slow creeping certainty. He could hear the wires in his brain snapping, locks clicking, shifting position, and walls becoming fluid. He was not coming apart; he was melting on the inside.

Schuldig listened. He didn't need to work on getting his mind off the strange what-ever-it-was that he needed to find. The people in his head easily did it for him, now that the alcohol was helping him along.

Schuldig enjoyed listening in on people's scattered conversations. Internal dialogues, monologues, sometimes dialogues within monologues and vice versa. Often when he entertained himself with people like this, he would specifically try to catch groups who were obviously all talking with one another, and try to piece together the relationships between them without ever seeing them. Sometimes he looked them up to find out whether his guesswork had been correct, but most of the time he didn't bother. He didn't think he was ever wrong.

On any normal day, he did it all for fun, but not today. Not this time. This time, he did it because the distraction served a specific purpose. He worked on slowly arranging his consciousness into layers. He kept a subconscious part of his mind alert, like a spring wired and ready, then he stacked other minds on top that part ― like slabs of marble or slips of paper, they were all different weight and shape and size, and he weaved them into a pattern inside him. His consciousness became a mosaic of interlaced soundless voices.

Schuldig gave a low, sultry chuckle and wiped his flushed cheek with his palm. Every single sensation in his head kept growing louder, more present and more potent, and it suddenly occurred to him whether he could reach Crawford all the way from here, and what was the precog doing? Schuldig licked his lips. No sooner had he thought of it when his instincts were already turning to search for the beacon that was Crawford's calm centre, oh, he thought he was just about to touch it ―

...but at the last minute, he checked himself. Even if he could reach Crawford now, it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want Crawford to catch him, snag him, snap him out of this delirium. He forced his attention elsewhere, like he would have whipped his head around ― and bumped right into something. If it had been a hum before, now it was a hiss.

_== ssss == ssss == ssss ==_

But damn if this wasn't it!

The spring was let loose, the trap was triggered. Schuldig shook off the layers of other minds, shook himself awake, leaped after his prey like a bloodhound. He latched onto the hiss. He had to move fast, and then faster.

_== ssss == ssssh == sshhh ==_

The wisp of shapeless thought kept trying to disappear. Stubbornly Schuldig kept hanging on. The sensation changed. It was no longer an eerily familiar whisper or an itch that could not be scratched. It became stronger, thicker, transforming into a sinister black place with no light and no air.

Schuldig choked but refused to let go. He started to spin, around and around and around, sinking, whirling down a bottomless downward spiral. Down, down, down.

Down he went.

Blip.

Schuldig's head flopped, his entire body fell limp like a puppet with its strings cut loose. The wine glass slipped from his fingers, and a dark crimson pool stained the white sheets. His eyes wide open, he lay immobile like a dead man.

* * *

Crawford adjusted the position of the glasses on his nose. "You are early," he commented without lifting his eyes from the book.

Eerily poignant silence rested in the room.

Crawford looked up from the book in surprise. He glanced at the door. He was sure that he had sensed Schuldig's presence brushing by his consciousness, like it did when the telepath was about to walk in. He was never sure if it was Schuldig purposefully warning him about his presence, or if it was something the telepath was not aware of doing while scanning the room prior to entry.

But the room was empty.

Huh.

He hadn't heard the door, but then, Schuldig was talented at coming and going noiselessly. Perhaps Schuldig had paused in the hallway when he had heard Crawford's greeting. His brow creased, Crawford waited. Listened.

It was silent. If Schuldig was home, he was keeping to himself.

Sulking, presumably.

Hmm.

Perhaps that was fine. Schuldig had left in a huff.

Crawford tapped the armrest of his chair. He kept staring at the door like he might will the telepath through it if he kept staring long enough, but winning a staring contest was possible only when Schuldig was in the room.

Yet Crawford kept sitting stubbornly. If the telepath wanted to be in private, Crawford should give him his space.

...but Schuldig had left in such a huff.

Crawford closed the book and placed it on the table next to the armchair. He joined his fingertips over his chest and supported his elbows to the armrests. He leaned his chin on his thumbs. He kept staring at the door.

The room kept being empty.

A telepath who wanted his space was better off left alone, but a telepath whose troubled feelings were left festering for too long was not particularly efficient, and Crawford needed Schuldig's top performance. With a resigned sigh, Crawford stood up. He went across the room, then down the hall. He stopped in front of Schuldig's bedroom. He rapped on the closed door and waited.

No answer.

"Schuldig." Crawford checked his watch. "We've got a little time before supper. How about we have a drink and talk about what you've found so far. Maybe we can..." His voice trailed off when he became uncomfortably conscious of the weight of the silence and the way it would stretch on.

Schuldig would not be opening the door.

Crawford didn't bother to comment further. He turned from the door and walked down the hall into the kitchen. He made a point of making just enough noise that it would be audible to Schuldig's room yet would not sound hostile as he went about finding the bottle of cognac and two glasses. He wanted Schuldig to know that his offer would stand.

Just in case.

He walked out of the kitchen, into the hall, and back into the sitting room. He left the door open, poured himself a shot, set the extra glass and the cognac on the coffee table, and then he waited. He flexed his fingers. His gaze followed the squiggles on the curtains. He kept listening for a change in the course of time. He wanted to catch the ghost of a red-haired creature walking in through the open door behind him.

Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc. Time moved on and it was getting closer to supper time, and Crawford caught neither a ghost nor a creature. The room remained silent.

Crawford took a sip off his glass. The pleasant taste of his favourite cognac was bitter on his tongue. He lowered the glass and held it to his chest. Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc.

It was time to go.

Crawford collected the extra glass and the cognac off the coffee table, turned and walked out of the room. He dropped the cognac and the glasses into the kitchen, then went back into the hall and headed over to the key hanger. He intended to make enough noise while picking up his keys that Schuldig would know that he was leaving ―

He was left standing with his hand held out, reaching for the hanger, his eyes fixed on the empty hook next to his own keys. He stood staring, unblinking, for several seconds before turning on his heels and leaving his own keys where they were. He walked swiftly down the hall back to Schuldig's bedroom. He rapped on the door.

"Schuldig." His voice was harsh, demanding.

No answer whatsoever.

Crawford waited for several long seconds, then tested the handle. Click. He let the door swing open to reveal a dark room. Crawford could not catch a familiar shape in the bed or in the chair near the window or anywhere else in the room. He passed his hand over the switch, flicking on the light. But the light didn't conjure life into the deathly silence.

Crawford's hand fell from the switch. He stood completely still for a heartbeat, two, then snapped his eyes shut.

_»Schuldig?»_

Like an outstretched hand groping through thin air. He caught nothing. Nothing there. No response.

Crawford wheeled around on his heels. He left Schuldig's bedroom door open. He checked the bathroom, checked even his own bedroom, checked the entire flat, but unless Schuldig was being ridiculous and hiding in a closet or under the bed, he simply was not home.

Crawford stopped to stare at the key hanger. Only one set of keys. An empty hook where Schuldig's keys should have been. Empty rooms stretched on around him into infinity ― it might as well have been for ever, because Crawford could not *see* when the redhead would be back.

_I'll be there,_ Schuldig had said.

The promise had been made, Crawford had never doubted it for a second. Not for one single heartbeat had he suspected that Schuldig would not be back on time. Why wasn't he here? Had something happened?

Crawford stood frozen in the middle of the hall. He kept thinking back on their heated exchange. Crawford had challenged Schuldig on purpose, he had pushed those buttons to make the telepath pay more attention to business, but had he pushed too hard? If Schuldig had decided to undertake some epic telepathic quest on his own, he might be in trouble.

Crawford went through his options. If something was wrong, he should see the future changing, and he had sensed no alterations in the course of time. He listened for good measure, but he caught nothing. Not a single nudge or a pull or a sign of any kind that something might be out of order. He quickly reassured himself that this was nothing but a bump in the road. He felt tempted to leave the telepath to his own devices. Schuldig had wanted to prove that he was so very capable of handling himself without Crawford, fine, maybe whatever that had happened would serve for a lesson. If the future had not changed, Schuldig would survive.

But the uncomfortable itch under his skin suggested that perhaps the future had not changed _yet_. Crawford still needed to make up his mind about how to react. Maybe his actions would determine the next steps of the dance.

"Damn you, Schuldig," Crawford muttered irritably. "This is not a game."

This might have been just some childish trick to rattle Crawford's nerves and to get attention. If it was, Crawford would waste time and effort by running around searching for his telepath.

But if it wasn't?

If it wasn't?

Crawford turned away from the front door and headed back to Schuldig's room. He picked up the alarm clock and studied its surface, running his fingers over every part of the item. Sometimes this worked; sometimes he would get a vision from touching something that belonged to the person he was trying to find.

Sometimes.

Crawford kept at it patiently. He went through several items from Schuldig's room, carefully placing them back to where he found them, but none of them turned in any results. Finally, he found himself standing in front of Schuldig's bed, staring at the empty space in the middle. There was far too much space everywhere.

He had lost his telepath.

Crawford stood in stunned silence for many minutes, just staring at the bed. He tried to imagine Schuldig there as though the mere thought of him might will him to manifest. Slowly, Crawford leaned in and touched the sheets. His fingers fanned out and his palm made contact with the smooth neat white surface. He had never imagined that Schuldig's bed would look like this. It was almost like it had never been slept in, and it was so neat and so void of colour, so unlike Schuldig who was so alive, so messy and so incredibly colourful.

Crawford imagined the splash of red on the pillow. The visual brought back something else, something long since forgotten, and the next thing he knew, he was crawling on his hands and knees in the bed, fumbling forward in the space which he imagined Schuldig must have occupied not twelve hours ago.

Sometimes that sort of thing helped, too.

Carefully, he lay his head on the pillow where the red hair must have rested. He straightened out his body and then he lay quietly, staring at the ceiling.

Tic, toc. Tic, toc. Time kept moving on. No visions. Nothing.

Crawford moved his hand. The white sheets reminded him about the institution where he had last shared a bed with Schuldig. They had been but a pair of infants, two young hasty creatures that felt more than was good for them, and he was ashamed to remember the way his hands had trembled to touch that thing that put a spell on him with a single look.

He hated the effect Schuldig had on him. He hated to remember the way Schuldig had laughed and the way Schuldig had moved and the way they had laughed and moved together. A bond had developed between them in Rosenkreuz. Schuldig's presence had sometimes bled into Crawford's mind by accident. He hadn't even needed to try to keep the link alive.

It was years since Rosenkreuz. It was different now.

Crawford's gaze wandered on the ceiling. They might need to rebuild the bond. That might involve bodies and beds. He thought about a shock of red and a pair of mischievous blue eyes and a smirk that promised him that he wouldn't regret it.

Was Schuldig disappointed that nothing had happened yet? And if he was, why? Crawford wasn't a telepath ― he couldn't tell. Schuldig had that look, his body moved in that way, but was it real, or did the telepath just want to utilize something that had once existed between them?

Crawford had no intention of letting him do that.

Schuldig was different now, everything was different. The new Schuldig was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, and Crawford needed to handle him with care. He didn't think he was in any hurry, so he had chosen to wait. Schuldig needed the time to settle in. Crawford could wait until he knew for sure that the time was right. He had been waiting to have Schuldig for so long. By now waiting came naturally.

Maybe a little too naturally. Crawford kept telling himself that Schuldig needed time, but maybe it was Crawford who needed it, or maybe they both needed the time but had forgotten what it was they needed the time for. They were in that place in between, where they needed to choose whether they really wanted to pursue a partnership, and what it meant if they did.

_I didn't sign up for this! None of this!_

Words spoken in haste and anger. They crept into Crawford's mind uninvited, reminding him that the telepath Crawford had sought to claim in Rosenkreuz no longer existed. The years had erased that young, curious thing that had been so easily snagged by Crawford's purpose. Replaced it with a man who had desires of his own.

His hand kept sliding on the sheets as he thought about those desires. Images flooded into his mind, but not the ones he had wanted. No, these were images that had plagued him for years now, these were the unwelcome flashes into a future that had now become reality. They were images of mouths breathing heat all over contorting muscles, images of shaking fingers seeking trembling flesh, images of blankets and pillows and sweaty bodies twining together. Most of the bodies were different every night, but one of them... one with red hair...

Oh, Crawford had seen Schuldig's desires. Was that where Schuldig was now? Perhaps he was in someone's bed somewhere, warm and comfortable, while Crawford lay here, foolishly reaching to find a man that didn't want to be found ― a telepath Crawford no longer knew.

The doubt that he might have been wasting his time should have made him abandon the enterprise, but instead, thinking about it made him only more determined to know more. He wanted to know the future and he wanted to know the present, he wanted to know this creature he had let slip from his hands, he wanted to know how Schuldig slept at night.

Did he sleep well, or did his demons follow him in his sleep?

Crawford couldn't tell. He couldn't even tell if his assumption of Schuldig's preferred sleeping position was correct. Crawford had presumed that Schuldig would rather sleep on his back, his arms stretched out like a man ready to embrace the universe, but was he wrong? Would the telepath sleep on his stomach instead? On his side?

Crawford tossed onto his side, his hand sweeping over the cold sheets in a wide arc until he touched the pillow. Was this how Schuldig slept? Just like Crawford? For years now, Crawford had always slept on his side, his hand ready to slip in under the pillow to grab the gun he kept there.

It had not escaped his notice that Schuldig had that look about him, that of a man who always kept one eye open. One eye open, and indeed, one foot out the door. Crawford kept giving Schuldig time and space to sort himself out and settle in, but what if the telepath had already settled in on the wrong side of the door?

The question tormented him. Did Schuldig ever spend time like this, lying here awake, thinking about Crawford, or thinking about what they had left back in Rosenkreuz? Did the past haunt him? How about the future?

Crawford's fingers crawled on the sheets, collected a handful of them into his fist. His past did not haunt him and he had never feared his future ― but one demon had never left him. He had waited for years to hold it in his arms again, yet things were different, and his demon had told him, _I didn't sign up for this! None of this!_

Had he waited too long? Had he become so used to waiting that he had missed noticing that the time had come? Had he lost his demon?

"Schuldig..." Crawford's eyes narrowed to thin slits, his fist trembled on the bed. "Damn it, where are you?"

His demon did not reply.

* * *

The night lurked behind the closed shutters, offering but little light into the dark room. Only the occasional burst of faint light from someone's car far below in the streets made the shadows move. The shape on the bed did not react neither to the light nor to the distant sounds of the city.

The door opened, letting in a stretch of warm light from the hallway outside. A tall male figure stepped into the doorway, its hand lingering on the handle, the sharp cut of its suit clearly drawn against the light. It hovered for a second, two, then slipped inside. Click, the door was closed, and hurried footsteps crossed the floor over to the bed.

"Schuldig."

The blue eyes kept staring vacantly, the pale face remained flaccid, the slender fingers stayed still. Crawford's eyes fell from Schuldig's face to the dark splash on the white sheets. His knee slid onto the bed, he supported his weight on one hand and leaned in to smell the stain. Having reassured himself that it was not dried blood, Crawford picked up the wine glass and smelled it as well before setting it down onto the bedside table.

He never took his eyes off Schuldig for a second.

"Schuldig," he called the telepath again.

No response. Crawford's gaze moved over Schuldig's limp body and finally stopped on the grip of the gun peeking out from under the waistband of Schuldig's trousers. Crawford reached over and pulled the gun out of the holster carefully, making sure not to touch Schuldig's body. He checked the safety and then placed the weapon on the bed.

Then he resumed watching Schuldig.

There were several types of telepathic trance. Some so light that any physical contact would jolt them awake. Others so deep that only another telepath or a specially prepared drug would bring them back into their bodies before they were good and ready to return. You could only tell the difference by checking the telepath's heart rate ― having said that, it was usually a bad idea to touch a telepath while he was *away*. You never knew what they brought with them when they came out of it.

For that reason, Crawford moved the gun slightly farther away from Schuldig's hands before passing his fingers from under Schuldig's nose. He had to wait a considerable amount of time before he felt the puff against his skin. Slow breathing suggested a slow heart rate. The chances of this being the first type of telepathic trance were considerably decreased.

"Always such trouble," he murmured.

Schuldig continued to lie like a dead man.

Crawford moved his hand slowly closer to Schuldig's head. It hovered on top of the red mane for a few seconds, then it made contact.

Nothing happened.

Crawford's thumb swept a couple of red strands off Schuldig's cheek. Schuldig kept staring. Crawford's hand slid down to Schuldig's shoulder. He tried shaking the telepath. Schuldig's head bobbed back and forth, his hair bounced like a bright red pompom, but his face remained frozen, his mouth open, there was no reaction.

Not as much as a blink.

In a terrible moment of paranoia, Crawford stuck his thumb under the telepath's jaw to check his pulse, as though he might have imagined the breathing. He sat there concentrated for several seconds, his own breath suspended in his chest, but finally he made out a heartbeat. It was slow, but it was there.

Schuldig was alive ― or his body was, anyway. His mind, on the other hand...

Crawford rolled Schuldig on his back, then delivered a harsh slap across the telepath's face. Schuldig's head was tossed to the side violently ― but his body remained limp.

"Schuldig." Crawford shook him by the shoulder again. "Wake up!"

No reaction. Schuldig's head flopped to the side. He was gone, elsewhere. Crawford sat staring at him in helpless rage. He wanted to smack the telepath again. Again and again! Ask him, what had he believed this would prove? All Schuldig had proven was that he was everything Crawford had implied ― inexperienced and reckless, juvenile even, oh he was barely qualified to be an operative! He wanted to tell Schuldig how dumb this was.

But as he sat there staring at Schuldig's pallid face, he just couldn't find words. If Schuldig had felt like he had something to prove and like he wasn't welcome back home without results, what else was he going to do but go at it alone? Could Crawford really expect the telepath to come to him asking for support after Crawford had treated him like a failure?

The red mess was thrown about Schuldig's face, coiling down his cheeks like streaks of rust. The faint flashes of light from passing cars penetrated the darkness through the cracks in between the blades of the closed shutters. The halo of that light shone off Schuldig's pale cheeks. For just a moment there, with his head tilted like that, with those eyes staring up into nothing, he might have been younger, much younger. He might have been the wild animal Crawford had found in Rosenkreuz.

Crawford brushed the hair off Schuldig's face, but his fingertips lingered on Schuldig's cheek. He had made promises to that little beast. _I'll take care of you._

He reminded himself that Schuldig didn't want that anymore. Schuldig wanted something else. Crawford's eye fell. A slice of Schuldig's collarbone was just about visible from under the shirt. Crawford's hand moved, his fingers slipped in under the collar, ran down to the first button. How many men had Schuldig permitted to unbutton this shirt? How many of them had he brought into a room like this one? How many men had done vile, filthy things to him, how many had made him sweat and squirm and sigh with delight?

Many enough for Crawford to know what Schuldig wanted ― pleasure, playtime, power, everything he had been forbidden from having in Rosenkreuz.

It wasn't as though Crawford couldn't factor into what Schuldig wanted. Why had he waited, why had he let these other men take what was his?

Deftly his fingers flicked open the top button and brushed aside the collar. Schuldig's neck was a work of art, long and well formed. Crawford's eyes were fixed on that vulnerable arc and right there and then, he didn't understand why he had waited so long. He wanted to sink his teeth into that neck and ravish it, bite hard like a vampire, he wanted to tear open that shirt and listen to the buttons clattering everywhere. He wanted to own this creature and teach it, let it know that it should belong to one man only!

One man only.

He wanted many things, and as he shuddered with his desire, he remembered why he had waited. The intensity of his own need appalled him. As though Schuldig's skin burned his fingers, he yanked his hand away. He would not be played by this demon!

Yet... Crawford couldn't take his eyes off those slender features. Right at the moment, Schuldig could not play him, he was not there, he could not hear Crawford's dark thoughts or see his hungry eyes or feel his trembling hands. Right now, it was safe to _want_. Irresistibly, like drawn by a magnet, Crawford's hand returned to Schuldig's collar and started to open the buttons. One look wouldn't hurt.

Just one look.

It was a long, delirious, delightful look down that perfect body, once he had got the shirt open. Not a single scar visible anywhere. Shadows formed in the dips and the mounds that made up the creature that lay so very still, so very quiet, barely breathing.

Like he was dead.

It occurred to Crawford to think back on how he had coaxed life into Schuldig before, when the telepath had been young and confused, half of him lost in the telepathic realm. Would it work now? Was the trance too deep to break with mere physical contact? Crawford's gaze followed the lines of that body lower and lower.

He thought about the drug he had brought with him. It felt heavy in his pocket. They had equipped him with a medicine that was supposed to help in situations like this. It was supposed to kick a telepath back into his body.

But they had warned him. There could be consequences. Schuldig had never responded to medication well. And even if it wasn't for the warning, there were other concerns ― there was the nausea he felt at the very idea of injecting Schuldig like the telepath was a laboratory animal. Schuldig deserved better. To do to him what _they_ had done, to watch Schuldig's eyes as the redhead realised that Crawford had used a Rosenkreuz drug on him...

No. Crawford rather tried every other option first.

So it was a logical course of action, really. Only intended to help out a team mate. Crawford's hand made contact with Schuldig's bulge. It was warm and pliant under his palm. He massaged it gently, his eyes returning to Schuldig's pallid face. That face, it looked so dead. He needed to feel Schuldig's warm body with both hands to believe that it was alive, that he wasn't touching a dead corpse, and so he crawled on his knees closer and groped with both hands to unbuckle and unzip Schuldig's trousers.

His cheeks slightly flushed, he uncovered Schuldig's underwear. He went over the facts again. He had gone through a considerable amount of trouble to get here without alerting the hotel staff. He had stolen the key into Schuldig's room. They wouldn't discover that it was gone until morning. Until then, the door would remain firmly locked. He had time.

Crawford pulled Schuldig's trousers down his hips and then jiggled his underwear off as well. He lost a moment staring at Schuldig's bare cock. It was still limp, but it was bigger than it had been the last he had seen it. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around it. It fit well into his large hand. His gaze climbed up over the stomach and towards the face, but got lost somewhere halfway, because there was so much to see.

He delighted in every shifting shadow that gave shape to Schuldig's muscles. It was a forbidden art, touching those muscles to make them bend, but the fact only made the treat more tempting. He had denied this from himself because it had come to mean too much, and if he was caught from having this weakness, it would be the end of him.

But did it need to be weakness? Wasn't he the master of his own pleasure? Couldn't he control this demon?

Crawford lay his free hand on the lithe body. His fingers studied every detail, claimed more and more smooth skin. His fingers fanned out over the chest, his thumb massaged one nipple.

A tiny ripple passed through Schuldig's muscles, encouraging Crawford's guilty pleasure. Crawford licked his lips. He had no idea what Schuldig would say if he woke up, but that was a risk he had to take. And anyway, waking Schuldig was the purpose of the exercise. That was the sole reason he was doing this, and he would tell Schuldig as much. That should really suffice for an explanation.

Crawford started to stroke Schuldig's cock with thorough, long sweeps up and down along the shaft. It was still enveloped within the foreskin, wrinkly and dry to the touch, but he could change that. Crawford spat into his hand and coated the entire instrument, then rolled his thumb around the head, working to reveal more and more of the tender pink tip. His gaze fell from Schuldig's body to thrill in the sight of the budding symbol of his triumph, slowly emerging from inside the foreskin. He plastered his palm against Schuldig's chest to feel the quickening heartbeat and the rapidly rising chest. Schuldig's skin was becoming flushed, his body was reacting well to the stimulus.

Oh, how the ache in Crawford's loins testified to his own rising need! He watched the splendour and squeezed the saluting shaft in his hand and he couldn't hold back any longer. Crawford hadn't really meant to bring his mouth into this, but before he knew it, he had leaned down and pressed his tongue on Schuldig's nipple to test its flavour. A spasm went through Schuldig's entire body as Crawford covered the bud with his mouth and sucked on it.

Crawford heard a moan. With a gasp, he relinquished Schuldig's nipple and looked up. Schuldig's eyes were closed, and his lips were moving without sound.

"Schuldig?" Crawford whispered. He released his grip of Schuldig's cock.

But the telepath did not answer, not exactly. What Crawford heard was a muttered string of words that didn't make sense at first, not until he made out patterns. This was the local dialect, and the words were all wrong.

This wasn't Schuldig.

Crawford moistened his lips and called the telepath again, but when there was no coherent response, he seized Schuldig's cock and began to stroke it again. Schuldig's cheeks were flushed, his body heaving and shuddering, and finally, his hips moved, and then his eyes went wide. Open wide, staring, but still without expression. He gasped. His hands flew up to grasp Crawford's shoulders. He kept struggling for breath, his shoulders shaking. His hips thrust up, his entire body rose, then fell with a moan.

Crawford choked at the beauty of the heaving body under him. He didn't even have to move his hand. Schuldig was thrusting up into his fist. The telepath's fingers were digging in Crawford's shoulders. He shoved his hips up again and again. Schuldig let out a hoarse hiss deep from the throat. He wasn't pushing Crawford away. Schuldig was strong enough to struggle, Crawford knew that he was, yet he was not struggling. He was encouraging, no, indeed begging for more.

The very idea that Schuldig might welcome this was enough to send Crawford over the edge. Ah, how Schuldig shuddered under him! Crawford was quickly becoming drunk with Schuldig, with the sight of Schuldig and the smell of Schuldig. Oh, he could make the telepath bend, plead, pay for all those nights Crawford had woken sweaty from a dream disappointed to realise that it was his own hand on his cock, not that of his red-haired demon.

Mercilessly, Crawford kept pulling and squeezing, coaxing Schuldig's cock to rise higher and higher. Schuldig did not object. His eyes still had that distance, but right now Crawford didn't care, right now he only needed Schuldig's compliance. Schuldig kept twisting and turning, he was burning in Crawford's arms. Crawford felt nails digging into his skin near the shoulder. Schuldig's breath was coming hot and hard, and he was still whispering in the wrong language. It didn't sound like Schuldig, it sounded like some other thing speaking with Schuldig's voice.

Crawford slammed his elbow on Schuldig's chest and pinned him down. He searched the wide blue eyes that were changing, shining with a strange shade of the sky. It looked off, the mixture of delight and confusion ― such a rare, unlikely emotion for Schuldig! It made Crawford remember again that this wasn't really Schuldig, and that fact made his lust for this writhing body a shameful, filthy, guilty thing.

Guilty thing. Guilty like this body he was touching, named so for a purpose. Schuldig.

The name was so appropriate, he sometimes had to wonder if it really was an accident, how they had named him. His mentor had taught him that there were no accidents, for even those things that were called mistakes always had a cause, and the cause often became a purpose, and a purpose might create that thing called fate. Crawford didn't really believe in fate, but on the other hand, he certainly didn't believe in luck, so he might as well believe that Schuldig's name was more than appropriate, and less than accidental.

Right now the name definitely had a purpose. Right now, he needed it to mean something.

"Schuldig," he whispered, lowering his head so close that they were soon breathing on each other's faces. "Schuldig..."

Schuldig didn't reply. Crawford's gaze searched Schuldig's wide eyes but kept dropping to the slightly parted lips. That mouth, it was a dirty, filthy, guilty thing.

"Schuldig..." Crawford kept repeating the name that was a spell and a sin, and his eyes were stuck on that mouth, until his voice was lost somewhere inside it. He claimed Schuldig's lips with a dirty, filthy, guilty kiss.

The lips responded. Crawford heard a moan and assumed it was Schuldig's. The redhead's arms wound around his neck and locked him in position.

Crawford wanted, needed this to be Schuldig, yet he didn't because if this really was Schuldig, that meant that he would have to figure out how to meet a pair of smirking blue eyes in the morning. He wanted, needed to go further and further, yet he didn't because if he went further then there would be no turning back.

But hadn't they crossed the point of no return a long time ago in the dark, their sweaty hands fumbling for warmth, breathless kisses looking for a way to forget? Hadn't that been the beginning and the end, wasn't this nothing but another milestone in a long road going nowhere? Crawford had foreseen that road snaking on and on, ever on and on, this telepath would be there tomorrow and the day after and the day after, wasn't it already decided?

Crawford was a creature trapped by destiny. He didn't really believe in fate, but predestination determined his every step. He kept counting, counting the months and the years, he kept counting the days until the right date, always on the hour and not a minute late, it was a rat race and an ever-spinning wheel taking him forward, always forward and with a purpose.

He should have had a purpose now, too, but when he held this fire in his hands, it was different. He had spent his entire life watching the universe and chasing his destiny across the aether, but this fire could burn away his purpose and leave him with a moment that had no meaning and therefore it became a meaning in itself. Every moment he spent like this was all his because it was right here, and not in the next second, the next minute or the next day. Here, there were no tomorrows.

To hell with the universe, here with this thing in his hands, he could forget what time meant.

* * *

He was somewhere else, someone else, seeing something else, hearing something else. He was seeing smiling lips, twisted lips, sparkling eyes, and then darkness, nothing but darkness, everything all at once until he couldn't tell where or who he was. He was hearing words and names that meant nothing.

But through the confused noise, he kept catching an echo of a different voice, one that was both familiar and unfamiliar, whispering the same word over and over again.

_Schuldig. Schuldig. Schuldig._

Over and over again. He didn't understand the words, he only understood that this voice was different from all these other voices. Then it occurred to him to try and respond to it, and that was when he realised that there was something in his throat, something that should have prevented him from speaking...

...yet he knew that he was speaking. Words and names that meant nothing.

But how could he speak, when there was this thing in his mouth? He almost bit down and chewed on it before realising that his own tongue was entangled with it, doing everything that two tongues are wont to do when they want to become one.

He realised that he was kissing someone.

His eyes flew wide open. It was like coming up for air from under water. The voices faded, the strange faces fell away as though a million soap bubbles bursting, and suddenly the darkness was the only thing he saw and the soft rustling of fabric on fabric was the only thing he heard. He blinked rapidly, then made out a glimpse of something pale and then of something black. He felt something hard and round against his cheek and something firm yet flexible under him.

It took him a moment to realise that he was lying on his back in a bed in a dark room. The thing pressing against his cheek was the rounded edge of a pair of spectacles. His tongue was still trapped, he was choking, he was kissing someone. He registered the black hair next, and then his stomach did an unexpected back-flip when he realised who it was.

Crawford. Brad Crawford.

Brad fucking Crawford was kissing him.

It just wouldn't compute. Crawford had not kissed him since Rosenkreuz, since years ago when they had been something different, the both of them, and Schuldig had begun to believe that it would never happen again. Crawford had got what he wanted, he had his team now. Schuldig was his, all papers signed and sealed, why indulge in this anymore? He didn't have to give Schuldig incentive to try and get assigned into Crawford's team. And even if Crawford would try to seduce him, there were so many more impersonal ways to do it than this. What the hell was going on?

And why was he kissing Crawford back?

What was going on with his body, for that matter? He felt spasms that he mistook for pain at first but soon realised were pleasure, something like electricity rippled through his entire body, there was something... something...

...was that Crawford's hand?

He gasped and ended up sucking Crawford's tongue in deeper. There was a sound like a moan, Schuldig didn't really recognise it. He hugged this thing he didn't fully understand was Crawford's head and he arched his body, not sure if he was trying to get away or get closer to the large warm thing hovering on top of him, but it didn't matter which one he was trying to do, because that hard, harsh hand ruthlessly pushed him down, holding him by the root of his cock.

_»__Fuck, Crawford.__»_ He hadn't actually intended to vocalise it, but right now, he wasn't really in control of what he was saying and what he was *sending* out.

The body on top of him froze. For the length of three heartbeats, the world stood still. Schuldig couldn't breathe, but he wasn't sure if it was because something ― or someone ― pulled the air out of his lungs with a gasp or because he had just forgotten how breathing was done, like he might take back the words that he had already let slip if he held his breath.

And then ― whoosh, everything disappeared. Schuldig blinked rapidly as Crawford broke the kiss and pulled his body upright, Schuldig's cock slipping from his grip. Schuldig's arms were left hanging. He stared up at the black suit, the white collar shining unnaturally bright in the faint light, fuck, the man hadn't even wrinkled his jacket, not undone his tie, not messed up a fucking thing.

Not a fucking thing, except maybe his eyes. Crawford's hair was hanging over his spectacles, blocking them partially out of sight, but from under those dark eyebrows and from behind those glass shields, his eyes looked foreign, a little out of place, distant and disoriented like he was having trouble focusing.

Schuldig licked his lips. This was a different Crawford, one from years ago and almost forgotten, one that had looked at him like this maybe once, twice in his life. A lifetime ago, when things had been different and they had kept each others' worlds safe in a dark place where no one would ever see, hear, know just what it was that they had shared in the silence where Schuldig had learned what it was like to want something for himself and not for other people.

It was a place half forgotten and long since gone, and Schuldig didn't think that Crawford remembered.

"Schuldig?" whispered the voice from the darkness. It must have been Crawford, though Schuldig didn't see his lips moving.

Schuldig held his breath trying to catch more, but if there was more, he couldn't hear it. He only heard his own heartbeat, so loud that he thought it might blast right out of his chest. Reality was rushing in hard. Hard, fucking hard ― Schuldig's cock was throbbing, reaching to high heavens, as though reaching after the hand that had slipped away. Crawford's hand wouldn't move, not farther, not closer, his fingertips were almost touching the head of Schuldig's cock, almost, too close yet not close enough. Schuldig couldn't take his eyes off the black well-cut suit. Shadows swallowed Crawford's powerful frame, caressed his shoulders, tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, as though they were trying to embrace him and pull him away.

As though the darkness wanted him as much as Schuldig did.

"Fuck," Schuldig whispered, his lips dry and his tongue numb like a battle-weary warhorse that couldn't take any more punishment.

"Schuldig," said Crawford, and his tone was changing, his voice was thick. His eyes were burning into Schuldig, unblinking and intense. "Is it you?"

What? Schuldig frowned. What sort of a question was that? It took Schuldig a long minute to understand exactly what was going on, but once he did, his forehead cleared. Oh, but of course. That explained everything. He had been gone. Ah. Of course he had been gone. This was the room. The hotel room. Crawford must have woken him up from his trance after he had got trapped. And where had he been? Those voices... they weren't what he'd gone out searching, but...

Ha! Suddenly, everything was rushing back. The faces and the voices, they made sense.

"I found them, Crawford." A slow, wicked grin turned up the corners of his mouth. Yes! He had fucking succeeded! "I found them. I mean, I found that thing, only it's not a thing, it's not one person, it's more than one." He was speaking fast, feverish even, everything was burning ― he was burning. "They're doing something fucking odd, it's the weirdest telepathy I've ever sensed, I think it's some cult. I know where they are!"

Crawford kept staring. Schuldig kept grinning, his eyes fierce and alive, demanding that Crawford acknowledge his achievement, maybe reward it. Maybe have no other choice but to show him how much he appreciated what Schuldig had done!

But the silence dragged on. It was inside Crawford and outside Crawford, it was everywhere. Crawford kept looking like he was about to pull away, put up his shields, walk away and tell Schuldig to get dressed and hurry up about it. The fire in the blue eyes faded, Schuldig's hands went limp and numb. Crawford wasn't even going to tell him what a good job he'd done, the fucking bastard would just tell him he should have come home and not caused all this extra hassle!

Fuck him! Fucking fuck Crawford!

An angry response was already on Schuldig's tongue when Crawford leaned forward. His lips were suddenly so close that Schuldig felt his breath with every word ― "How are you feeling?"

Schuldig froze, staring at Crawford in surprised, shocked silence. Crawford's face was so very close now, almost as close as it had been a while ago. Their lips were almost touching. Almost, almost, their noses brushed against one another.

"I'm fine," Schuldig whispered, not able to keep his eyes from moving. He kept scanning every part of Crawford's face, from the eyes down to the mouth, then back to the eyes again, and he felt like removing those damned glasses, but he was as suspended as his breath. Brad fucking Crawford, the man of steel, the man of iron and shields, asking him how he was feeling, instead of assuming that he was all right, even demanding, requiring that he was?

It was a little too much like the way it had used to be, and Schuldig snapped his eyes shut because he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to remember how good it had been, he didn't want Crawford to remind him.

But if Crawford knew what he didn't want, he obviously had no intention of respecting it. The firm, large, calm hand descended and found his hip, sliding down, sweeping over the buttock and to the thigh, and from there back to the buttock again, and then his fingers went somewhere _else_. Schuldig's chest expanded and his eyes popped open wide.

Crawford's eyes were dark and silent and welling with something darker, something more silent, something that Schuldig hadn't seen in years if even then. Had Crawford really ever looked like this? This was a look of rage broiling just beneath the surface, of mute anger.

Rage? Anger? Why? Because Schuldig had caused him so much trouble?

...but what the hell was he doing with his hand, if he was angry, and why was Schuldig letting him?

Crawford's fingers explored the sensitive area in between Schuldig's buttocks, one fingertip studying the centre, rolling, trying to locate that place from where he might penetrate deeper. All the while his eyes changed shades, to something darker, and Schuldig knew that it was not the physical expression he was reading, it was something else, something Crawford would never acknowledge existed ― slivers, shivers of hidden things that only a telepath could catch.

That, right there, was why Schuldig was letting him go on.

Schuldig could have pushed, he could have tried to get past Crawford's shields, but Crawford might notice, and that would break this. There were so many more things, so many better things you could do when you were good enough, and Schuldig was. He could tell that Crawford wanted to know something more than whether or not Schuldig was feeling "fine" ― or maybe he didn't want to know anything at all. Maybe he just *wanted*.

That was more than fine with Schuldig.

Schuldig's eyes changed shades to match Crawford's. He slipped his hands over Crawford's broad shoulders, over that fine black suit and over all those sharp angles, up, up, until he could sink his fingers into Crawford's hair. He grabbed two fistfuls of short black hair and pulled. Crawford didn't object, and so Schuldig crushed their mouths together.

Crawford rushed in like a tidal wave, his mouth hungrily claiming Schuldig's for a fierce kiss while his other hand flew to his own belt buckle. Schuldig didn't have to be a precognitive to predict his moves right now. The telepath kept his grip of Crawford's hair with one hand while the other hand searched down Crawford's body.

Getting rid of Crawford's trousers was a joint effort. They unbuckled, unbuttoned and unzipped, then somehow got some minimal amount of spit on Crawford's cock and worked Schuldig into position on top of Crawford's knees. Both their trousers were still halfway down their thighs, preventing Schuldig from spreading his legs properly, but judging from the satisfied sound deep from Crawford's throat, it only made the entry tighter and better for him.

Schuldig's eyes rolled back in his head, but if he felt any pain, he didn't notice. He was tuned into Crawford's frequency. Every shudder through the precognitive reverberated through the telepath's body. His arm clamped around Crawford's neck, he held Crawford's head in position while his other hand tugged Crawford's suit, his feet seeking for a hold of Crawford's body despite the fact that the trousers prevented him from spreading his legs properly. Crawford's other hand found Schuldig's cock, the other one kept trying to find a hold of his clothes, and Schuldig could swear that it was trembling.

Schuldig didn't really know which one of them it was that felt all this or if it was both, neither did he really care. There was no end and no beginning between them, there was only a continuous undulating movement. Schuldig thrust into Crawford's lap, Crawford met him, or vice versa, it didn't matter, they moved in unison, and Crawford's hand kept sliding on Schuldig's cock. There was no need for counting heartbeats or seconds or minutes, there was no reason to check whether they were still breathing ― Schuldig was pretty sure they weren't and that was all right, his mouth was full of Crawford's tongue and Crawford's hand was full of his cock, and this moment was all that mattered, one lengthened blissful second until...

...until...

Crawford's teeth sank into his lip suddenly, Schuldig's mouth opened for a soundless gasp that started in his chest but ended in his throat before it ever made it to his lips. Schuldig's body arched up, Crawford thrust violently, and after a messy moment of entangled bodies and limbs, Crawford released Schuldig's lip and coughed and made a sound that was like a choked sob before sinking, his face disappearing into the curve of Schuldig's neck. Schuldig was moaning but he didn't give a fucking damn right now. His legs were cramping, his arse was burning like someone had just rubbed it raw with sandpaper but his cock was rejoicing with happy nudging motions towards his stomach, staining both Schuldig's chest, his trousers and Crawford's suit with hot white smears.

They expended their last strength on trying to hold back the noise that was like thunder in Schuldig's brain. He heard his heart racing in his ears, his blood was coursing, making him warm and then limp, numb, his every muscle quietly, slowly letting go. Little by little, he relaxed, pressed his cheek against Crawford's black hair and hazily wondered how strange it was that Crawford didn't worry about his glasses getting smeared, with his face buried in Schuldig's chest like that ― he knew that Crawford wasn't worried, he could tell from the way Crawford tasted. Crawford was like the quiver of an autumn leaf in the cold breeze, about to fall but too stubborn to let go.

A slow, satisfied smile curved Schuldig's lips and he took several deeper breaths only just to take in the scent of his victory. Crawford smelled like shampoo and cologne and sweat ― just like he did after a mission. Schuldig licked his lips. Was this how Crawford would taste like after a mission?

For several long heartbeats, they stayed very still, catching their breath and collecting themselves. Then Crawford moved. It wasn't much. Just a shift in the position of his knees, a slight change in the tilt of his head and the arch of his back, but he moved. He moved to get up and to remove himself from Schuldig's arms.

For a suspended breath, Schuldig wasn't sure what to do. He could keep holding on. He had a good grasp of Crawford's suit and a better one of his neck. He could make Crawford stay right where he was. But clinging on would look needy and be easily misinterpreted, and besides ― Schuldig wanted to see Crawford's face.

Without objection, he let Crawford lift his head. Crawford looked at him with eyes that looked very different now. More serene yet still wild, and ah, he tasted different, just then.

"Let's talk more when we get home," Crawford whispered. "I need to hear everything."

There were so many words there that resonated. Home. Talk. More. Need. Everything. Schuldig almost opened his mouth to tell Crawford about all that ― about home, about talking, about *more* and especially about need. It would have been an easy mistake, to think that Crawford was talking about something other than their mission.

But he wasn't, and Schuldig checked himself on time. He took a moment, a long breathless moment, swallowed the odd taste in his mouth, and then let go of Crawford's body. He swept the white sticky liquid off his own chest and showed it to Crawford meaningfully.

"I've got to take a shower before we go." He tugged Crawford's jacket and his eyes fell to the wet stain. "And you might want to carry your jacket on your arm when we leave." His lips were moving, telling Crawford only what he was comfortable telling, but he barely felt a single word, because these practicalities wasn't what he wanted to talk about. They weren't lies, but then, how did you really make the distinction? Where did the omission end and the lie begin?

Crawford's eyes lingered, then went somewhere else, somewhere that Schuldig couldn't see them. He didn't object, didn't argue that Schuldig could wait until home for his shower, didn't say a thing. Crawford pulled his dick out, and Schuldig's stomach muscles tightened for the sharp jab of pain. Crawford retreated ― and left a strange vacancy. Schuldig kept his eyes in the direction where Crawford had been a moment ago. He listened to Crawford shuffling on the bed. The sheets rustled, and there was the zipper. Crawford would soon be all buttoned up and proper.

Schuldig might have leered at him, told him that he hadn't been so proper and buttoned up a moment ago, but the smirk died before it ever made it onto his lips. The improper, unbuttoned, undone Crawford had tasted a little too good for comfort.

Schuldig switched onto his side, turned his back on Crawford, and then slid over to the edge of the bed and lowered his legs onto to the floor. He didn't check what Crawford was doing behind him. He shook the trousers past his knees and down his legs and off his ankles onto the floor. He kicked the shoes off and then got onto his feet. He lost the rest of his clothes on his way out through the bathroom door.

He didn't look behind him. Not once. Crawford didn't need to get any funny ideas about just how much Schuldig had enjoyed this.

Schuldig stepped into the shower and switched it on with one hand while pulling the curtain behind him closed with the other. His eyes lingered with the tap as he adjusted the temperature of the water. He wanted it warmer, damn it, he wanted it hot enough to singe his skin, he wanted to burn away the fluster. He closed his eyes and kept turning the tap hotter and hotter. He supported one hand to the cold wall and swept the red mane over one shoulder to let the water wash down his bare back. The steam caressed his skin.

And then something else caressed his shoulder. His stomach muscles clenched, his eyes flew open, he stared at his own hand, drawn against the neutral pale blue wall. He barely dared to breathe as the warm large something travelled over his shoulder blade and a steady, firm thumb found its way down his spine.

He should have slapped it away and tossed a snide remark from over his shoulder. He really should have.

"This changes everything, you realise that," Schuldig whispered instead, because this did, whatever Crawford was doing now and had been doing a moment ago, it changed fucking everything.

Another warm something landed, on his hip this time. From the way he could no longer feel the water on his back he knew that Crawford had stepped under the shower and was hovering just behind him.

"Does it?" Crawford's voice was so calm, deep, like he was at ease with the universe and nothing could ever go wrong. "We've done this before." Like a demonstration, his hand moved on Schuldig's hip.

At last, Schuldig reacted. He spun around on his heels, sweeping Crawford's hands off him.

What he saw took his breath right out of his chest for a few seconds. Crawford had never really given him many opportunities to see his naked body. But here he was, wearing absolutely nothing, not even his glasses. He was imposing, tall and muscular, more so than Schuldig remembered. A cloud of steam embraced his rippling muscles. He was standing directly under the shower, letting the water wash down his face and his body. A pair of gold pieces gleamed at Schuldig from under wet hair that flowed down Crawford's face like black paint. The look in those honey-gold eyes! Like he was seeing nothing but Schuldig, like he might never see anything else.

Schuldig might have become lost in those eyes, just then.

...but he didn't. He took a long breath.

"It's different now," Schuldig argued.

"Is it?" Nothing on Crawford's face even twitched. He was full of purpose, full of his fucking future, whatever that might mean, the bastard.

"We're partners now."

"Weren't we always?"

Schuldig studied the slight turn of Crawford's mouth, and the nose, the cheek, the honey-gold spheres ― Crawford's bare, unprotected eyes. Crawford was so very immediately there, searching Schuldig's face just as Schuldig searched his, promising everything from the future, and everything from the past. The perfect bait for the telepath who wanted *more*, but...

Things were different now. They were about to set the stage for many, many years to come, and Schuldig wanted *more* in a whole new way.

"You know, _Herr_ Crawford..." One fine eyebrow developed an arc over one eye. "There's partners, and then there's partners."

Crawford kept watching him from under his brows. "You don't trust me." He said it as though he was stating the correct answer after taking a long moment solving a particularly complex mathematical dilemma.

Schuldig tossed up a challenging eyebrow at him. "Why should I?"

Crawford spread his arms a little. "We're here, aren't we?"

Here. Here, in the shower? Wet warm bodies permeated by steam and the afterglow of sex that should never have happened? Or here, working together, stuck together, trying to figure out whether they belonged together. Maybe Crawford had all the answers ready, but Schuldig took a long moment considering both Crawford's face and his own answer. His gaze fell, lower and lower, until he had reached the middle of the chest. He stared at the faintly visible cross-shaped scar.

Only one of the many things Crawford never talked about. Never had... never would.

"You aren't going to tell me why, are you?" Schuldig whispered, his gaze lingering on the scar, but he wasn't talking about the scar and Crawford knew it.

"I've already told you."

Schuldig dragged his gaze up to meet Crawford's eyes again. He said nothing, he knew that he didn't really need to. A telepath doesn't need to speak to let his thoughts be known, especially when he is dealing with a precognitive.

And Schuldig didn't need to read Crawford's mind to know what sort of answers to expect from him.

"I've seen it," said Crawford.

And that was that. Crawford kept waiting. Schuldig could have told him to go fuck himself. He could have chased him out of the shower. A pair of bright specks of unblinking blue kept gleaming at Crawford from under long clumps of wet red hair. Schuldig shook his head.

"It's bad business, Crawford."

A tiny smile twisted the precognitive's lips. He offered reassurance in the form of a calm reminder. "That's what it always was."

Schuldig bit his lip, but a response smile kept pulling at the corners of his mouth. The fucking bastard, making an effort without ever needing to admit that he was making an effort, managing to look like he was simply stating the cold facts of a good business case. But he had a point. The contract might have changed, as had the terms of the deal, but in the end, the business remained the same. Which, of course, was just that ― business. Neither of them had never imagined that there was, or should be, anything other than business between them.

And they both remembered just how good this particular piece of business could be.

They might have put words to it, but it was too personal. They had too much at stake. Too much ground to lose or win, and neither of them had ever been very good at putting any of it into words. Schuldig didn't want to think so much, and Crawford didn't want to talk so much, and in the end, Crawford had a plan, and Schuldig had a purpose.

They would dance together, as they had danced before.

Crawford shifted closer, so close that their cocks brushed against one another. It should have been too early for another round, yet both instruments sprang to life, greeting each other. Water splintered off Crawford's broad shoulders and cascaded down his back. Crawford cupped Schuldig's buttock with one hand while his other hand found a handsome helping of red hair. He pulled the telepath closer. Their cocks were soon nestled in the warm, wet embrace of their thighs.

Schuldig moved his hips and tilted his head in invitation. Crawford took his cue and leaned in closer. They were breathing in sync, their lips almost touched.

Almost. Almost.

"We've had this conversation before, haven't we?" Schuldig whispered. "How many conversations like this will we have?"

Water dripped off the black strands that hung over Crawford's eyes. His fingers slid on Schuldig's wet skin, causing ripples through both their bodies.

Schuldig's tongue moistened his upper lip slowly. "How many, Crawford?"

Crawford hung in the moment between the past and the present ― the moment that was about to define the path his feet and hands and mouth and body would take again and again. Perhaps he hoped to reconsider, or perhaps these were merely those last few, long, excruciating seconds _before_.

Before everything, before all those moments that would eventually answer to Schuldig's question.

_How many?_

With a half-suppressed exhale, Crawford gave the only answer he had. "Many enough."

Schuldig's hand made contact somewhere near Crawford's hip, his fingers fanned out, his nails sank into pale, rippling flesh. He shoved himself into Crawford's lap, indeed shoved his entire weight against Crawford's bigger body. Crawford's feet skidded on the wet floor, he was losing ground but he refused to let go.

Crawford's body hit the wall violently. Schuldig passed from under the shower head only to emerge from behind the wall of water like the unholy hybrid of a fire demon and a water nymph, smiling viciously from under a red blaze of dripping wet hair that smacked against Crawford's chest. The telepath's eyes burned holes into Crawford's brain, threatening to take all his thoughts, while his famished fingers groped to take much more. He slithered up Crawford's body like a slippery snake.

Crawford's breaths were hot and short on Schuldig's face, his pupils dilated. His fingers clenched in Schuldig's hair, fisting a clump of red strands near the neck.

"It's still bad business," Schuldig hissed into Crawford's mouth.

Whether Crawford nodded or leaned in was unclear. He took a sharp breath as though to give an answer ― then he took more than a breath and gave more than an answer. His mouth covered Schuldig's and his tongue pushed through Schuldig's lips. Schuldig wrapped one arm around Crawford's waist and locked them in place.

They smashed together like two colliding asteroids, and the impact stole time away. They kissed and kissed, their tongues darting around one another like two entangled eels, locked in a battle for supremacy. The wall of hot water and the rising cloud of steam hid their bad business from the world. They held on tight, and then tighter.

They did not care ― or perhaps dare ― to name this, whatever this was. It was something they had never lost, never found. It was forged between them, built from blood and sweat and terror and pain and hate and all those powerful forces that moved through souls to make them stronger, and like this, they had made _this_ stronger. Whatever "this" was, neither really wanted to know.

Right now, and for an indeterminable slice of the future, there was only need. For now," this" was enough.


End file.
